The Runaway Family (23 page)

Leo gave a nervous laugh, “No, of course not. It arrived like that. I’m afraid the post is very badly handled these days.” Leo’s face was grey with fear and his eyes flicked from the desk, to the window, to the clock on the mantelpiece, back to the window. It was then that Kurt saw the telephone, remembered the voice he had heard as he’d mounted the stairs and in that moment he knew what Leo Meyer had done. With one despairing look at Leo, Kurt spun on his heel and pelted down the stairs. As he ran he heard Leo wailing, “What else could I do, Kurt? They’ve taken my Leah! They’ve taken my Leah!”

Kurt knew the front door was already locked, so he ripped open the side door and ran across the yard to the back gate. How long had he got? How long before the Gestapo arrived to grab him, to drag him back to Dachau? They would have people surrounding the place, covering the back alley as well as the front entrance. He drew back the bolts on the gate and flung it open. The alley was empty, each end out of sight as it curved away behind the houses. Both ends opened on to a main road, but unless he reached one before it was covered by the Gestapo, he would walk straight into a trap. How long had he got?

His answer came immediately. There was the crash of glass and splintering of wood as a jackboot broke down the shop door. No time to run. Kurt looked wildly round the yard for somewhere to hide. A small tool shed stood against the side wall. No good hiding inside… but the roof? It was his only chance. He jumped up and grasping its rough stone parapet, scrabbling with his feet, he managed to heave himself onto the top of the wall. With heart pounding, he scrambled onto the roof of the shed, but realised at once there was no hiding there. He slid back onto the wall, to lie, shaking, partially concealed by the jut of the shed roof. At that moment the back door of the bakery burst open and two men catapulted into the yard.

There was a roar from one, “He’s gone through the back gate! You go that way, I’ll take the other! We’ve got him!”

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of heavy boots pounding along the alley echoed back to him. Kurt raised his head a fraction. What to do now? It wouldn’t be long before they realised that he had not tried to make his escape along the alley. They would be back to search the bakery and its neighbours properly. Two men. How many had come in answer to Leo’s call? There were certainly more in Leo’s apartment, he could hear shouting. No escape that way then. He would have to move on. He glanced down into the yard on the other side of the wall, and the back entrance of the tobacconist, next door to the bakery. Could he escape that way? There was nowhere else.

As softly as he could, Kurt slithered round and dropped into the yard. He edged his way to the back door, keeping close under the wall so that he should not be seen from one of Leo’s windows. He tried the back door of the shop, but it was locked. If he wanted to get into the building, he would have to bang on the door. No point in that. He was about to try his luck at climbing the next wall and moving into the next yard, when he noticed the sash window beside the door. It had been left open an inch or so for ventilation. Kurt slipped his fingers under the frame and pushed upward as hard as he could. The window was well greased and slid up easily. It was a moment’s work to slide in through the gap and roll the window down again, this time completely. For the moment Kurt was out of sight, but he knew that the whole area would soon be flooded with men looking for him; and if Leo saw him, that would be that. Leo would do anything to try and save his beloved Leah.

The room in which Kurt found himself was used as a laundry. There was a large sink with a tap, a copper for boiling water, a scrubbed wooden table covered with an ironing cloth, and on a wooden airer, slung from the ceiling, clothes had been hung up to dry. Kurt saw a dark blue boiler suit, and shedding his old overcoat he grabbed it down and pulled it on over his clothes, buttoning it high to the neck. There was a workman’s cap on the back of the door, and Kurt crammed it onto his head, pulling it well down to shade his face. He checked that he had the precious packet in his pocket, and he was ready to move. As he was about to open the door, he saw a toolbox tucked under the table. It was Frau Hirsch who ran the tobacconist’s, he remembered, and her husband was a plumber. Kurt’s suitcase was somewhere in Leo’s shop, but there was nothing in it anyway. Kurt picked up the toolbox. He was now a plumber.

He eased the door open and found himself in a narrow corridor. A flight of stairs ran up to his right, and further along another door to the right led into the tobacconist’s shop. At the far end of the passage was a door onto the street, allowing entry to the apartment without having to pass through the shop.

For a moment Kurt tried to visualise the inside of the tobacconist’s shop. The door from the back of the house came in behind the counter, he remembered. It was glazed, but if Frau Hirsch was serving a customer, she probably wouldn’t see him slip past. It was a risk, but one he had to take. His only chance of escape was to get away from here as fast as possible.

Kurt drew a deep breath and walked swiftly and silently down the passage to the street door. It opened to his touch and he stepped out into the street. There was a large black car parked outside Meyer’s bakery, and another across the road outside his own home. The street was almost deserted. At the sign of Gestapo interest in the neighbourhood, everyone headed for cover, hoping that they had come for someone else. Still clutching the toolbox, Kurt walked purposefully up the road, away from the parked cars. He passed several entrances to back alleys, but decided he was safer walking along the main roads as if he had nothing to hide. When he reached the corner, he turned left, away from the end of the alley that ran behind the Meyers’. There were a few more people around here, but even so Kurt was anxious to find somewhere busier where he could melt into the crowd.

It won’t be very long before they know what I’m wearing, Kurt thought as he strode along, toolbox in hand. How long before they find my coat in Frau Hirsch’s laundry? How long before she tells them I’ve stolen her husband’s boiler suit and his toolbox? Not long, if they are thorough as they usually are. No one will try and protect me; no one will dare and who can blame them?

“This man is a thief!” the Gestapo will say to justify my arrest. “This man has stolen the tools of another man’s trade, leaving him unable to earn his living and support his family!”

Kurt still had no idea as to where to go. They would surely be watching both the railway and the bus stations, and if he stayed on the streets it was only a matter of time before they picked him up. He was definitely a man on the run now, a man on the run with no money. The few coins that he had in his trouser pocket were the last he owned in the world. The only things he had of any value now were his watch and Herr Hirsch’s toolbox. He would have to sell them… if he could find anyone willing to buy.

It was then he remembered Paul Schiller. He had been a good friend of Kurt’s father, a jeweller who had a shop just a few streets away. Paul Schiller would probably give Kurt a fair price for the watch… if he were still in business.

Kurt set off to find the shop. As he waited to cross the road, a sleek black car swept round the corner, its wheels throwing up filthy spray from a puddle in the road. Kurt was not the only one to turn away as the car sped past, but even as he did so, he saw the pale despairing face of Leo Meyer, crushed between two Gestapo, in the back. Leo had betrayed Kurt to try and save his own wife, but it would seem that the Gestapo had not kept their side of the bargain. Perhaps, thought Kurt, because they didn’t catch me, or perhaps simply because they are the Gestapo and they don’t have to. Like Oberführer Loritz, who had taken possession of Kurt’s property when there were still two days to run. Well, if they’ve taken Leo in for questioning, it won’t be long before they know exactly where I’m going.

The sight of Leo in the back of the car made Kurt feel sick. The reputation of the Gestapo was well established, and no one who fell into their clutches was safe. Kurt quickened his pace and before long he reached the street where Paul Schiller had had his shop. Hardly daring to look, Kurt walked to the corner where the shop had been, and miracle of miracles, was still. He pushed open the door and went inside, if nothing else, pleased to get off the street for a while.

Paul Schiller was an elderly man, with snow-white hair standing in a halo around his head, half-moon glasses perched on his nose and piercing blue eyes. He was behind the counter when Kurt opened the door and he looked up as the bell jingled to announce the arrival of a customer. He had an eyeglass screwed into one eye and he squinted at Kurt, not recognising him.

“Good day to you,” he said mildly. “How can I help you?”

“I have a watch I’d like valued,” Kurt said. He put his hand into his pocket and pulled out the watch he had removed from his wrist before entering the shop. He held it out to the jeweller who took it and looked at it for a long moment. Then he looked up again.

“Where did you get this watch?” he asked.

“It was my father’s. Now it’s mine.”

“Kurt Friedman? Is it you? Heinrich’s boy?”

Kurt smiled and held out his hand. “Yes, Herr Schiller. It’s me, Heinrich’s boy.”

The jeweller took Kurt’s outstretched hand and shook it. “I heard your shop had burned down… and that you were arrested. Is that true?”

Kurt nodded. “It happened the night of the riot. Back in July.”

“And you’ve been released? Where are you living now?”

“Nowhere,” replied Kurt. “I am looking for my family. I’ll be honest with you, Herr Schiller, I don’t just want the watch valued, I want to sell it.”

Paul Schiller looked at the watch in his hand and said, “Your mother bought that watch from me as an anniversary present for your father over thirty years ago. Swiss. A beautiful movement.” He handed the watch back to Kurt. “It would be a pity to part with it.”

“I don’t want to part with it,” Kurt admitted, “but I’ve nothing else of value to sell, indeed nothing else in the world, and I need money to eat and to find my wife and children. My father would think it was being put to good use.”

“I see.” The old man came round the end of the counter and pulled down the blinds on the windows. “Let’s have a cup of coffee and talk about this,” he said, locking the door. “I often close in the afternoons these days, there’s very little business. Come on through.” He led the way to a room at the back of the shop. It was furnished as a small sitting room with armchairs and a sofa. A closed stove sent a steady heat into the room so that it was comfortably warm, and it was only as the warmth hit him that Kurt realised how cold he was.

Paul Schiller set the kettle to boil and then said, “Are you hungry?”

Kurt admitted he was. “It was food or a train ticket this morning,” he said. “The train ticket won.”

The jeweller went to a cupboard and drew out a large loaf of bread and some cheese. “I always keep some food here, to have for lunch,” he said, and cutting a thick slice from the loaf, put it, with a large hunk of cheese, onto a plate and passed it across to Kurt. “You eat that while I brew the coffee.”

Kurt fell on the food, and his father’s old friend, watching him, realised what dire straits he was in.

When the coffee was made, he prepared another plate of bread and cheese, which he also handed to Kurt, and then he sat back nursing his coffee cup and said, “Now then, I think you’d better tell me everything from the start, don’t you?”

Kurt looked across at him. “I’m not sure that is a good idea at all,” he said. “It could well put you in danger.”

“We’re all in danger while the Nazis are in power,” replied Paul. “I’ve only myself to think about. If I am prepared to take the risk, it is my decision, and you don’t bear the burden of it.” As Kurt still looked uncertain the old man said, “There are few enough able to stand up against this tyranny, even in small ways. They have families to protect, they have private scores to settle, they are just plain scared. For whatever reason they can’t or won’t say enough is enough. Now, tell me what’s happened to you, what you are trying to do and what I can do to help you.”

The grey afternoon faded to dusk, and still they sat in the warm room behind the shop, Kurt relating all that had happened to him and what he knew of what had happened to Ruth and the children. Paul listened almost without interruption, just occasionally asking a question to clarify something, and when at last Kurt finished he made no comment for several minutes. Silence lapsed round them, and neither man felt the need to break it. At last, Paul said, “Have you opened the packet from Ruth? Is it your passport?”

Kurt looked at him in surprise. “You know, I haven’t had an opportunity.” He reached into his pocket and produced the packet. He was about to slit it open when Paul stopped him.

“May I have a look at this first?” he asked.

“Of course.” Kurt handed over the package.

Paul held it carefully between finger and thumb, looking at the flap, still sealed, and the tear across the top. “This has been opened and re-sealed,” he said. “Look, you can see where there is extra glue at the edge of the flap… beside the tear.”

“I thought it had simply got torn in the post,” Kurt said.

“That is possible,” Paul conceded, “but unlikely. I’ve had several packets and parcels arrive here in this condition. They intercept parcels like this addressed to Jewish firms and businesses. They are looking for the transfer of funds. In the current climate Jews are keen to get their money out, or at least spread it round so that they don’t lose it all at once. The post is no longer inviolable. Anything suspicious, any regular post going to Jews, is opened, read and either disappears, or is re-sealed and sent on. The Gestapo know who is receiving what, and why. Take your package, for instance – ” Paul held up the unopened packet. “It was addressed to someone who didn’t live at that address. That was suspicious straightaway. It was addressed to someone already known to them… a definite reason for interest. Finally, it came from abroad. Post from other countries addressed to Jews can be worrying to the Nazis. They are still trying to protect an international reputation. They aren’t quite ready for war yet.”