The Runaway Family (25 page)

Kurt looked across at him and said softly, “Paul, I don’t know what to do, but I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all you have done for me. I will consider what you say, but whatever I finally decide, I must leave here now.” He got to his feet, and taking off his watch again, tried to hand it to Paul, but the little jeweller waved it away.

“Keep it, Kurt. It was your father’s, and it may yet provide for you if necessary.”

“But I must have some money,” protested Kurt. “And that’s all I have to sell.”

“Then keep it to sell another day,” replied Paul, and, reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a brown envelope and passed it to Kurt.

Kurt looked at it uncertainly. “What’s this?”

Paul shrugged. “You said you need money. It’s money.”

Kurt looked into the envelope and his eyes widened. “But I can’t take all this!” he exclaimed dropping the envelope on the table.

“Of course you can,” replied Paul. “Your father and I were friends, Kurt… and I have no one else who needs that money now. My Günter died in the ’flu epidemic last year. There’s no one to have my money when I die… except the Nazis, and I’d rather they didn’t.” He gave a bleak smile. “I have something else for you,” he said, and reaching again into his inside pocket, he produced a document, which he handed to Kurt. “Günter used to travel for me quite a lot. He often went to Amsterdam or London to buy stones for our business. This is his passport, I thought it might prove useful.”

Kurt took the passport and opened it, staring at the photograph inside. “It doesn’t look much like me,” he said doubtfully. “He had a beard for a start!”

Paul smiled. “So he did,” he agreed. “But beards can be shaved off… or re-grown. You have the same dark hair, and are roughly the same age. I just thought there might come a time when it would be useful to have some papers in another name.” As Kurt continued to stare at the picture, Paul went on, “It’s still valid. No ordinary border guard will know that he’s dead. It might get you through… wherever you decide to go. Take this, too. Learn the names and addresses and then destroy it.” He handed Kurt a slip of paper. Kurt looked at it and saw two names and addresses written on it in Paul’s neat script; one in Hamburg, the other in London.

“Two men I do business with,” Paul said. “They both knew Günter, they may be able to help you.” He sighed. “Who can tell in these dreadful times?”

“Come with me!” Kurt said suddenly. “Come with me, we could travel together.”

The jeweller shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m too old to start running; too old to start another life somewhere else. I’ll be all right here. They can see there’s no harm in me… I’m too old for one of their labour camps.” He picked up the envelope and thrust it at Kurt again. “Take it, Kurt, and use it to save yourself and your family. Go to America if you can, we shan’t see the end of these Nazis in Europe for a long time to come. Take the money, Kurt, and the passport, so that I can meet my maker knowing that I did something that made a difference.”

Kurt looked at the old man for a long moment and then reached forward and took the envelope, and tucking the addresses into it, put it, with Günter’s passport, into his pocket.

“And now you must go,” Paul Schiller said. “I’ve brought you an overcoat, scarf and a hat.” He passed them over to Kurt who put them on. “And here’s your ticket. It will take you all the way to Hamburg if you decide to go that far. Somewhere along the way you will find a telephone.” He clasped Kurt’s hands in his. “Leave by the back door,” he said. “I’ll go out through the front, locking the shop up as I always do. Good luck, my boy.”

“I don’t know how to…” began Kurt.

“Then don’t. Just survive.”

Kurt slipped out through the back door of the shop and made his way to the station. Carrying the suitcase Paul had brought, he looked like any travelling salesman. That is, he thought ruefully, until they open it and find nothing but a few crumpled clothes and some toiletries. Not the boiler suit or the tools. They had been left for Paul Schiller to dispose of. The precious passport was tucked safely into the inside pocket of Kurt’s jacket, worn beneath his new overcoat. Darkness had fallen and it was very cold, but for the first time in days Kurt felt warm as he strode along the streets to the station.

The train for Hamburg would pass through Kirnheim in less than ten minutes if it were on time, and that, thanks to Hitler, was something that could be relied on these days. Kurt had timed his arrival so that he would have the minimum time to spend standing on the platform waiting. As he showed his ticket at the barrier, he fought the urge to look round, giving the ticket collector a faint smile and then looking resolutely ahead of him, as if he had no reason in the world to wonder who was watching. The arrivals board told him that the train for Vienna was due about twenty minutes after his Hamburg train had left. Kurt could only pray that those who were hunting him would be concentrating their attention on that platform. Like many another, his scarf was wrapped high around his neck and his hat pulled low over his ears to keep out the cold, and there was very little of his face visible. If he were lucky he would be onto the train and away entirely unnoticed.

The Hamburg train arrived in a cloud of smoke and steam, rattling its way into the station and screeching to a halt beside the platform. Doors opened, people were disgorged onto the platform, and in the bustle of passengers coming and going, Kurt got into the train, found a seat, and opening the newspaper he’d bought outside the station, buried his head behind its pages. As the train drew out of the station, he allowed himself a glance through the window, and his heart froze. A dark-haired man, much of Kurt’s own height and build, was being hustled, protesting, along a parallel platform by two men in dark overcoats.

“Oh God,” Kurt prayed, “let him be able to prove he isn’t me!”

The train gathered speed, and for the time being there was nothing Kurt could do but sit back and go where it took him. He had no intention of going all the way to Hamburg, but he knew he had to stay on the train long enough to escape those looking for him.

It was late when they reached Nuremberg. Kurt had spent the journey considering all his options, but mostly thinking about what Paul Schiller had suggested he do. Make for Holland or England, not for Austria. He went over and over what Paul had said. Hitler will annex Austria. Austria will become part of Germany. It will be run by the Nazis. Laws which now subjugate the Jews in Germany will become law in Austria. “It you go to Austria, you will be trapped there,” Paul had said. Looking at everything unemotionally, there was a great deal of truth in what Paul had said, but Kurt could not look at everything unemotionally. He couldn’t just turn away from his family and run for safety; everything within him shrieked against it. How could he escape to Holland or England and leave them behind to be swallowed up into the new German Empire? Paul’s foreboding about Hitler’s intentions with regard to Austria made it all the more important that Kurt get to Vienna, and sooner rather than later. He had very little faith in English Jewish societies rescuing Jews from Austria, and certainly not Jews of his background. Those societies, no doubt very well intentioned, would work to bring out eminent Jews, educated and highly skilled Jews, not humble shopkeepers like him. Part of Kurt’s brain knew that Paul was right, it would help no one if he went to Vienna and was caught there. The other part urged him to get to Ruth as soon as he could. He didn’t know if Hitler really would try and annex Austria, but it would not surprise him; then Ruth and the children would be trapped again. Would they be of less interest to the Nazis if he were not with them? Maybe. Who could tell?

As the train chugged north, Kurt’s brain churned, his thoughts in turmoil as the plans he had made the night before now had to be completely reconsidered, and by the time he reached Nuremberg the only definite decision he had made was to get off the train and try and speak to Ruth.

He walked away from the station, and found a small hotel in a side street nearby. It had two bow windows that spilled yellow light out into the street, and the rooms beyond looked warm and inviting. Thanks to Paul Schiller he had plenty of money for now, and he thought that a public telephone in a hotel would be safe enough. To speak to his beloved Ruth, Kurt was prepared to take the risk.

He paused and looked around him. The narrow street was empty, though he could hear the traffic on the main road. No one was watching, no one was there to see him, so he took the plunge, walked up the steps to the front door and pushed it open. The lobby of the hotel was small, scarcely more than a passageway with a desk set into an alcove. A young woman sitting behind the desk looked up with a smile.

“Good evening, sir,” she said. “May I help you?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kurt responded with an answering smile. “I’d like a room for the night.”

“Certainly, sir. Just the one night?”

“Yes, thank you, I have a train to catch in the morning.”

“If you’d just fill in the registration card, please.” The girl handed him a card. It asked for his details, and Kurt knew a moment’s panic. Which name should he use? Best to use his own. He would also be asked for his identity card, and it had his true name and address on it… so he would have to risk putting those on the form; he had only a passport in Günter’s name.

When he had registered, the receptionist said, “Room 4 on the first floor.” Kurt thanked her, picked up his suitcase and asked, “Is there a public telephone I can use?”

“Certainly, sir. Just down the corridor.” She pointed along the narrow passage that led into the depths of the hotel. “There’s a booth there.”

Kurt thanked her and went up to his room. It was nothing special, but compared with the places in which he had been sleeping the last few days it looked like heaven. There was a basin in one corner, a radiator under the window, but best of all was a wide, iron bedstead, covered with a folded featherbed. Kurt took off his coat and sorted through his pocket to find money for the phone. Then he locked his door behind him and went back downstairs in search of the telephone. When he reached the hall the receptionist looked up and smiled at him.

“If you just give me the number, sir, I’ll place the call and put it through to the phone booth.”

“Surely,” stammered Kurt, “I can place it myself?”

“Sorry, sir, but all calls have to be routed through our switchboard. It’s no trouble.”

“It’s an international call,” began Kurt. She had caught him completely off balance; unused to hotels, it had never occurred to him that the public phone would not be connected directly to the exchange.

“That’s no problem, sir,” replied the woman smoothly. “Just give me the number and wait in the booth.” She picked up a pencil, poised to write down the number she required. Kurt had to make an instant decision; give her the number and risk her listening in to his conversation with Ruth, or not give her the number, and say he’d changed his mind, at the risk of arousing her suspicions. The longing to hear Ruth’s voice was overwhelming. He gave the number and the woman wrote it down.

“Now if you wait in the booth, sir,” she said, “I’ll place the call, and when the phone rings in there, you’ll be connected.”

Kurt thanked her and went along the passage to find the phone. The phone booth was a small, glass-fronted cubby hole under the stairs, but it had a light, a stool to sit on and seemed to be completely private. As he waited for the call, Kurt was assailed by fears and doubts. He should have gone to the station or somewhere completely anonymous. He should have found a reason for changing his mind. Had there been a flicker of interest in the woman’s eyes when he’d said he wanted to make an international call? He had to assume that she would be listening in, so he must make it clear to Ruth that they were being overheard without actually saying so. Would Ruth understand his warning? Be cautious in what she said? He could only pray that she would.

The phone jangled in his ear and he snatched up the receiver.

“You’re through, caller,” the operator told him. “You have three minutes.”

Then another voice said, “Good evening. Herr Doktor Bernstein’s residence.”

“Please may I speak to Frau Ruth Friedman?” Kurt’s breath caught in his throat, he could hardly get the words out.

“I’m sorry, but there is no Frau Friedman here.”

“Frau Edith Bernstein, then. Please hurry, this is an international call.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?” asked the voice, unhurried.

“Kurt Friedman, her brother-in-law. Please hurry.”

“Please hold the line,” said the voice, and then there was silence.

“Come on, come on,” muttered Kurt as the seconds of his precious three minutes ticked away.

After what seemed like ages he heard another voice. “Hallo. Edith Bernstein speaking.”

“Edith, it’s Kurt.”

“Kurt! How are you? Where are you?”

“Edith, never mind that, I’m running out of time. Is Ruth there?”

“No, I’m afraid not, she…”

“Where is she? How can I contact her? Has she got a phone?”

“No, she hasn’t. Look, can I take a message for her?”

Kurt tried to keep his voice steady. “Please ask her to be at your house this time tomorrow. I will phone again.”

“But Kurt…” Edith began

“Please, Edith, this time tomorrow,” Kurt managed to say before the operator said, “Time’s up, caller,” and the line went dead.

Kurt slumped down onto the stool, his head in his hands. He could have wept with frustration and disappointment. Ruth wasn’t there. He had so longed to hear her voice and she wasn’t there. She had said in her letter that she was going to move the family out to a place of their own, and she must have done so.

“For goodness’ sake,” he admonished himself, “you’ve only got to wait one more day. Edith will surely have her there tomorrow.”

With a sigh, Kurt got to his feet and went out into the hall. With the exception of one light at the foot of the stairs, all had been switched off, and the hallway was in semi-darkness. The reception desk was empty.