Tim lay in bed, staring up at the ornate ceiling, feeling totally alone. Well, perhaps he was, and who was to blame for that? He closed his eyes, not wanting to think of his empty-handed arrival yesterday evening, and the fury it had provoked. He turned on his side, burying his face in the down pillow, wanting to shut out the sight of her face, the spittle spray as she had shouted, the slap.
It didn’t work. He sat up and checked the alarm clock. He usually woke before it went off but this time he’d forgotten to set the damn thing. It was nearly nine o’clock. His mother would be even more furious with him, if that was possible. There was a knock at the door. Amala called, ‘Good morning, Herr Forbes.’
He dragged his fingers through his hair. He didn’t even know his name, not really. Was he Smith, like Roger? Or Thomas, like his mother’s family?
‘Good morning, Frau Dreher.’
‘Amala is good,’ she said. He had not known until now that the maid knew any English. He washed, shaved and dressed, noticing that he had the start of a bruise and a cut on his cheekbone from his mother’s ring. He did not want to leave his bedroom. Had his mother calmed down? Were the disappointment and anger of yesterday finished? Of course she was right, he deserved it because he had failed her, but as he said, there didn’t seem to be any letter. He had obeyed her instructions, but to no avail.
He hurried to the dining room to get it over with, but there was only a plate with ham and cheese, some toast and coffee. And a letter propped on the coffee pot.
Dearest Tim
I have to attend a block meeting. Such a bore, but we need to get together to deal with one of the women whose behaviour is incorrect. I will be shopping today for Heine’s birthday party tomorrow evening. It’s a surprise, and because he’s away until then, no need for him to know anything at all. He phoned late last night from Hamburg. I told him about the letter and he will give it some thought. Please amuse yourself and we will meet for dinner and I will tell you what Heine needs you to do. Forgive my bad behaviour, I was just so disappointed that the wedding cannot take place as I had hoped.
Your loving mother
He felt utter relief, because he’d thought he’d never be forgiven. He was suddenly hungry, which wasn’t surprising, since he’d been sent to his room without any dinner, like a child.
It was hinting at spring in Berlin, to judge by the blue of the sky, and the tiny buds on the linden trees. As he walked he looked up but saw no birds, just banners and flags. They lifted his spirits and he was able to forget everything for a moment. He strode out into this vibrant city, so different from those at home, where everyone was struggling to survive. He realised it was the first time he had walked alone in Berlin, because his mother usually swept him off in a taxi to haunts she knew, telling him it was better to do it this way, and warning him that there were still some places it was best not to explore.
He sped past the slower walkers, saw a tram, and jumped on, not knowing where it was going, and not caring. The day was young, and his mother was his ‘loving mother’ again. He paid, and after ten minutes jumped off. Again he walked past shops, elegant apartments, a water fountain. He was about to cross the road, when his sleeve was gripped. He swung round. It was an old man, his coat shabby. He stank of poverty. ‘English?’ he rasped.
For a moment Tim hesitated. ‘What?’ he replied, pulling free.
His arm was gripped again. ‘Help me. I am Jew. Please, beg take daughter. Take to England.’
‘For God’s sake.’ Tim wrenched free but the man followed, limping. Again Tim’s sleeve was grasped. The old man came close; the smell was appalling, he needed a shave. ‘Please, take my daughter. I pay, diamonds. Take all. Nothing more I have. Home, work, gone. I get no visas. Please. She Jew, but she do anything. Take her, I beg.’
Tim tore free again, running across the road, stepping over the tramlines. ‘What the hell are you people like?’ he shouted over his shoulder. Reaching the pavement on the other side, he brushed his sleeve, feeling dirty. Selling his daughter, for heaven’s sake. No wonder Germany had needed to be sorted out. Above, the sky was clouding over. He was shaking; how bloody stupid. ‘Pull yourself together,’ he said aloud.
He made himself continue walking and he no longer had to weave through people, as he was almost the only one on the street. At last the trembling stopped, and he could no longer smell the man, or see his desperation.
He wondered if he should buy Heine a birthday present. He answered himself – of course he should. He’d fouled up. He needed to make good or Heine would be in a mood. He stopped to look in the window of an antiques shop, interested in an inkwell, but he baulked at the price. He walked on, then turned right down a cobbled side street where there were far fewer shops, and people, thinking that it would probably be cheaper. He peered into a jeweller’s, but all the goods looked second-hand, and there was nothing suitable.
He kept walking, and in a deserted street to the right he saw chairs propped up outside a building. He turned into the lane, which looked like the back street in any pit village, but the houses were tall tenements, and everywhere was the stench of poverty. The chairs were stacked against railings. Stairs wound down to a basement junk shop. He peered down, the door was open, and furniture was stacked in the entrance. There was nothing to interest a man like Heine who had everything.
He passed on. A child ran out of a tenement courtyard, in boots without laces. He ran to the right, then ducked into a doorway. Tim hurried now, anxious to find the main road. He came to the end and met a narrow cobbled alley, running north to south. He hesitated, and then turned north, hearing traffic, thank God, because this wasn’t what he’d expected of Berlin. Almost immediately there was a shop window on his left. Again it was almost a junk shop, although he did notice a decent lamp in the window, but no, he had to find something personal. But what? He was feeling more confident now, and giving the lamp a final look, he walked on. Suddenly he heard something – what? A crash, shouts, behind him. He stopped and turned.
Two men ran out of the lane he’d just left, heading towards him, their caps pulled down; one perhaps in his thirties, the other just a boy it seemed. The older one turned and looked over his shoulder at two policemen who were gaining fast. Tim moved to stand flat against the wall, but too late, the man crashed into him, knocking him backwards, and then roaring on. Tim rebounded off the wall, clattering into the police, bringing them down like skittles, so that they sprawled at his feet, cursing. He tried to keep his balance, but more police came roaring past, and one clipped his shoulder, spinning him. He put out his arm, reaching for support, crashing back into the wall. He was winded, and couldn’t think. Whistles blew, and somewhere a van revved.
A policeman ran up, his truncheon out, and caught him a blow on the side of his head. It knocked him down. He clambered to his knees, ‘What are you doing?’ he yelled. But the blows continued to fall. He covered his head with his arms. All the while the policeman yelled at him in German. A kick caught him on the thigh and he collapsed and curled up on the cobbles, but the men he had brought down were rising, and they joined in. He tasted the grit of the cobbled road.
All around were shouts, and the frantic sound of whistles, but at last the beating stopped; he hurt all over. He lifted his head; two policemen stood over him. He started to rise. One shouted at him, the other powered a kick into his ribs, panting. He vomited. He knew the men wouldn’t stop, because the fire of excitement was in them, as it had been in him, for a split second, when he punched Bridie. At that moment he knew he could have stopped that one blow, but he didn’t want to.
One had hold of his hair, and lifted his head. He spat out grit and blood, and saliva. ‘English,’ he said, but it was a croaking whisper.
A man in plain clothes was there now, and he said something in German, and there was no excitement in his eyes, just the same sort of coldness that was so often in Heine’s. He was hauled to his feet, and pushed and shoved the length of the street to a green van, which blocked the far end. This was what had been revving. The doors were opened and he was flung inside, onto the legs of one of the two men in caps. The other was groaning alongside. The doors slammed. The engine revved, the van lurched and juddered over cobbles; they were thrown from side to side. He dragged himself off the prone figure and gagged, his body a mass of pain, his mind churning in a morass of panic and shock. ‘What the hell did you do?’ he murmured finally.
The two men were coughing and groaning. Their caps were bloodied and on the floor. Tim realised his own must still be in the alley. The younger man who had knocked into Tim lay prone, but the older one crawled over to their caps, snatched them up, and put them into the pocket of his torn and frayed jacket pocket. The van must have taken a corner fast because all three of them were thrown against the side, then back again. The older one heaved himself into a sitting position, and pulled out a broken tooth.
Tim’s head was an agonising mass of pain; his face was raw and bleeding. The man tossed the tooth away and wiped his face with his handkerchief. In English he said, ‘Why should we have done anything? It’s enough that we exist. Freemasons they do not like. Mischlings they do not like. Jews, Reds . . . As I say, my friend, it is not something we have done, it is who we are.’
Tim dragged himself across to sit next to him. The man stuffed his handkerchief back in his pocket with trembling hands. ‘Welcome to our brave new world, my friend.’
Tim asked, ‘Mischling?’
The van took another bend. ‘Half Jew, half Aryan. I had a good job in Hastings. I am a tailor. Not to mention a Freemason and a Mischling. My mother was ill and still in Berlin. I came last year to take her away from this.’ He waved his hand.
His friend was stirring, and slowly raised himself to all fours. Tim saw that he was only a boy, perhaps James’ age. The lad muttered something, then crawled across to sit next to his friend and said something else, in German. The older man said, ‘In English, for our foreign guest. You see, my friend, Otto worked in London, in a restaurant. He came back some while ago, and though he has the misfortune to be a Freemason, he is not a Jew, so he will perhaps be alright.’
‘I never saw them, Avraham. They must have been waiting for us. Did they get us all?’ the young man said, groaning.
‘You are hurt, Otto?’
‘No, not really. I have a belly ache. They kick well, my friend.’
Avraham stroked Otto’s hair. ‘It will ease. I am sorry, my English friend, to have knocked you. Tell them that I crashed into you. It won’t help, but then again, it just might.’
Tim swallowed. He felt sick, and hurt so much. ‘Your mother?’ he said.
Avraham shrugged. ‘I went to her apartment, but she was gone from it, to be replaced by Aryans. Her job was gone too, because an Aryan tailor took the Jewish business where she worked. It happens to some, but not to everyone yet. I found the tailor. He had just a diamond or two he had hidden but they had taken all else. He also had my mother, in his dark, tiny hole of an apartment. She was sad and dying. I went back to our home, to get the only thing I could save, for it was lodged, as is our way, outside the apartment.’
He drew out a small rectangular case. ‘I saved our mezuzah case from the door frame. Within it is the parchment she inscribed with Hebrew verses from the Torah, as is also our way. It is what most of us make return for, in secret, to remove. Everything we have, otherwise, is for the new “owners”. She died peacefully with it in her hand. I keep it with me. They will take it, and destroy it, but until they do, I will keep it.’
Tim was looking at the rectangular piece in Avraham’s hand. He leaned back, his thoughts fragmented, but even so, he recognised the shape. He felt icy cold, and sleepy. Avraham nudged him. ‘Don’t sleep. Keep alert, it will help you recover.’
They moved with the van, the three of them together, and almost immediately it seemed they stopped, which was when Tim realised he had slept, and felt worse, much worse.
‘Raus, raus,’ a policeman shouted, leaping into the van and kicking them out.
Tim stood on the cobbles of a dark, forbidding square, surrounded by high tenements, or perhaps they were offices? He saw other policemen slamming shut huge gates. No, it must be a prison, because there were bars at some of the windows. Tim said, shivering, ‘You should drop the mezuzah case or they will know you are a Jew.’
Avraham shook his head as they were pushed towards a single door. ‘My friend, one gets so tired of hiding who one is, and look at me. They will know. We are in their hands now, and one of their delightful camps awaits us, but perhaps not for you. You must call a friend.’
‘I’ll ask for a solicitor.’
Otto and Avraham burst out laughing. The guards jabbed at them with their rifles, but as all three of them were racked with pain, what was a bit more?
They were herded towards a desk behind which a policeman sat. Tim insisted on a solicitor. Avraham repeated it in German. The policeman stared, took their names, then nodded to the guards. Manacles were slapped on their wrists. All three of them were shoved along the passage, then down slimy steps into a stinking basement. Somewhere someone screamed.
They were shoved into a cell, where manacles were also attached to their ankles. A chain linked their wrists to their ankles. The guard slammed the door shut. The men looked at one another. ‘Best we sit,’ Avraham said. There was only the cold floor. They all somehow slid down the wall to the stone floor. God, it was cold. Tim rested his head back. The walls seeped damp. He should ask them to contact Heine Weber. He would tell them he was an SS Untersturmführer.
But he couldn’t, because now he knew the real Germany, and he was scared of discovering his real step-father, and his real mother, for he knew that a mezuzah case had been removed from their doorway too. He also remembered how clever Tim had sanded the wood until there was virtually no sign it had ever been there, and how Heine said he would find the owners and castigate them for damaging the property. Tim hadn’t known what he meant. Now he did. Perhaps he always had, but had turned away from it. If Heine had indeed found and punished them, then that was his fault.
The manacles rubbed but he barely noticed it amidst all the other throbbing aches and pains, and the terror that had dried his mouth. His teeth chattered, and he thought he’d never stop shaking. All that was in his head were his da’s words, from long ago, before he had found his mother, but after the Nazis had started their march on democracy. ‘A nation that dismantles its legal system is without restraint, and must be fought.’
Otto died in the night, quietly, without fuss. Avraham closed his friend’s eyes as Tim looked on in shock and insisted, ‘We must tell the guards.’
Avraham shook his head. ‘My Christian half, and your whole Christian being, must say prayers for his soul, for they will not.’
They clanked themselves upright and said the Lord’s Prayer and the twenty-third psalm. As they chanted it, Avraham’s voice broke, and Tim found that tears were rolling down his own face. It was the shock, the fear and a sort of grief, but also the hell of it, and the outrage, because Otto was only a lad. When they were finished they called the guard, who flicked back the shutter over the spyhole.
‘Later, it is two in the morning,’ Avraham translated. ‘The cart will come, later.’ They sat until dawn with Otto.
Dawn passed. Hours passed. They talked a little, of their lives, their mistakes, their hopes, but these were scarce, so they preferred to remain in the past. It was this that Tim grieved for: the safety of the past, the goodness, and the folly of his erroneous beliefs and deeds.
Thirst was driving them mad. They grew quiet. The minutes and hours passed, and they heard men and the occasional woman being dragged along the passage, their chains rattling, their groans and pleading unceasing. They pressed their hands over their ears, but that did nothing to stop the rising panic and dread. When would it be their turn?
As the day drew to a close they were beaten up two flights of stairs, able only to take tiny steps in their chains. Avraham whispered, ‘Tell them of Heine, your mother’s friend. He will arrange for your release.’
Tim shook his head. He hadn’t suffered enough for all that he had believed and done.
Avraham tensed as they hobbled along a corridor towards some double doors. ‘I say goodbye, my friend. May your God go with you.’ His eyes were fixed on the doors.
Tim looked from them, to Avraham. ‘May yours go with you, though we both share the same one. If I get out of this, can I contact anyone for you?’
‘Sadly, they are dispersed. I know not where. But my name is Avraham Walters. It is my father, now dead, who was Aryan. Should you by chance ever meet someone looking for a family member of that name, please tell them of me so that I may exist, if only in their memory.’
They were at the double doors now. The guards went ahead. Avraham leaned towards Tim, saying urgently, ‘In thinking of my previous words, please, in my pocket is the mezuzah case. Quick, dig in your hands and take it and keep it safe, and put it in your house when you return, so something of my mother, father and I survive. That will keep me stronger and safer than it being stamped beneath their boots. Beware, it could endanger you. Say no, if that is your wish.’
Tim paused a fraction, then he took it.
Avraham said, as the guards clumped back, ‘You are brave, you are good. Do not suffer for the past, for that is what I think you do, but change the future.’
Avraham was dragged ahead of Tim, through the doors. Tim called, ‘Easterleigh Hall, if you survive.’
He was knocked sideways by the guard. He called again, ‘You will exist in my memory, Avraham Walters.’ The policeman hit him once more then shoved him down into a chair against the wall, while Avraham was pulled and pushed forward through another set of doors, which swung shut behind him.
Across from Tim sat a woman behind a desk, smoking a cigarette and writing. There were five such desks, each with a woman smoking, and writing. Across from them sat four men and one woman, shackled as he was. One of the men down at the end was slumped forward. The rest were talking in low voices as the women fired questions. A policeman stood behind each of those being interrogated, a truncheon in his hand.
The woman him stubbed out her cigarette and handed the man the paper she had been writing on, and a pen. She pointed at a particular spot on the paper. The man shook his head and proceeded to stoically read what she had written. She reached across and slapped him hard across the mouth. The sound resonated around the room. No-one even looked. The woman shouted, but the man continued to read. She hit him again. The man read to the bottom of the paper, and only then did he sign.
Tim knew he would remember this bravery for the rest of his life.
At that point the double doors to his left opened. The guard standing behind one of those being interrogated turned and pointed at Tim. He turned, his head heavy and sore, his mouth too, where he had cut the inside with his teeth at some stage of the beating. It was Heine, in his SS uniform. The shackles were unlocked. He stood, swayed. Heine did not reach out to help him. Tim clenched his fists, the nails biting into his palms. Heine said nothing but marched down the corridor, his voice cold and quiet, as Tim limped, trying to keep up. ‘Your mother made me phone round when you did not return home, and I could not believe my ears. You have put me under an obligation – a common thug, they said, who stopped the police to allow criminals to evade capture.’
Tim said, ‘That’s a lie.’
Heine stopped. Tim collided with him. Heine stared ahead. ‘I do not lie. The police do not lie. You will not speak again unless spoken to. You will help your mother prepare for my surprise party, and you will not tell her I know of her plan. You will then return to Britain to harvest the letter forged in your mother’s name. The silver was someone else’s theft.’
He marched on. Tim put his hand in his pocket and gripped the mezuzah case.
When he arrived at the apartment building, Heine stopped the car and opened the door. ‘You wash, you shower, you help. You remain in your bedroom and do not attend the party, and I do not wish to see your face in the morning, even. You will do this to thank me for my actions. You will also, as I have ordered, find that letter.’ Suddenly he smiled. ‘Then we will all be friends.’
Tim limped into the foyer, up in the lift to the second floor. He approached the door and ran his hand over the sanded wood. His relief when he felt the very slight indent made his legs almost fail him. The spirit of the former owners remained. His mother answered his ring. She didn’t hug him, but her moue of distaste said it all.
‘I apologise, Mother. It was an accident. The police were chasing others, and I knocked into them, and down they went like skittles.’
‘Stupid boy, you don’t do that here, in Germany.’ Her face was pale and frightened. ‘Heine wants you to find . . .’
He lifted his hand. ‘I know, I’ve had my orders.’
He walked away to his bedroom to wash. She shouted, ‘Don’t be so damned cheeky.’
He entered his bedroom and shut the door.
Later, he helped Amala set up the buffet table with mats, silver serving spoons, and forks. He carted in piles of porcelain plates, from the storage unit in the kitchen. For an hour he did her bidding, and with each item he wondered where the owners were now. He covered a side table in a white damask cloth. At last Amala gestured to the glasses and bottles in the vitrine. This was what he had been waiting for. He nodded. She disappeared to the kitchen.
He crouched down and examined the lock on the cupboard, which he had not been allowed to open. He removed from his pocket the slim penknife he had taken from his toilet bag. His da had shown him once how to pick a lock, when he was a child, and had lost the key to his metal money-box.
He listened, hardly breathing, turning the blade carefully. Click. He turned the handle and opened the door. Inside were many small silver items. He didn’t need to check, but nonetheless he did. The initial stamped onto the bottom of some was exactly what he had expected. ‘B’ for Brampton. He didn’t recognise the crest on the sugar bowls, or the exquisite brush and comb set, but knew it was some of Lady Brampton’s family silver.
He thought he heard a noise, lifted his head, and listened. No, nothing. Carefully he shut the door and hauled himself upright, closing the penknife. So. So.
He reached for the side table. He was clammy with sweat. His body ached. His mam would have taken him straight to Dr Nicholls to be checked out; his da would have sat him down and talked him through it. Bridie and James would have supported and cheered him. Uncle Aub and Aunt Evie would have turned up to try and help, with Aunt Ver and Uncle Richard.
But he had chosen this woman who was his mother. In no way did he recognise her as such, now. He had chosen this world, which was black and evil, and he, in his turn, had become so too. He didn’t know what he must do, except be careful, be clever, and get back home. No, he didn’t deserve to say that any more, but he must return to England with no-one here knowing the truth of his feelings, or his discovery. It wasn’t fear now, but terror, as it had been in the cell.