8

Kurt stood for a moment, dumbfounded, outside the slammed door and then walked slowly back down the stairs to the street below. His mind began racing. Where were Ruth and the children? Where could they have gone now? And what had happened to Herbert? Why had he been arrested? Was it simply because he, too, was a Jew? Or was there something more? Was he even now learning how to survive in Dachau, or some other such camp? Where were Ruth and the children? Where were Ruth and the children?

Kurt stepped out onto the pavement and for a moment looked up at the building. Which was Herbert’s flat? Third floor. And then he knew exactly which one it was, as the old woman stood there by the window, staring down into the street. When she saw him looking up she gave him a triumphant Heil Hitler and then drew the curtains across, as if to shut him out.

What a vile woman, Kurt thought furiously! How had she come to be living in Herbert’s apartment? She had referred to Kurt’s family as “the Jewish orphanage”. Clearly they had been made homeless yet again, so where had they gone?

It was dusk now, and Kurt knew he needed somewhere to stay. He doubted if he would be able to pick up the trail tonight, even if there was one. People were more than reluctant to open their doors to a strange man after dark. He set off down the street at a brisk pace, looking for a small hotel or guesthouse where he might stay for the night. He was loath to spend the money, but although there was no official curfew that he knew about, it would be foolhardy to be out alone after dark. For a while he wandered the streets, looking for somewhere suitable, and finally saw a card in a window. Room to let.

He knocked on the door and waited. At length it was opened by a young woman in an apron. She peered at him as he stood in the dim light in her hallway. She clearly was not impressed with what she saw.

“Yes?”

“Good evening,” Kurt said. “I’m looking for a room, and I saw the card in your window.”

The woman eyed him suspiciously. “How long for?”

“One night, maybe two.”

“Only let by the week,” she replied and began to shut the door.

“I may stay a week?” asked Kurt hurriedly. “How much would it be?”

The woman paused and then told him the price. “Week in advance! No meals! Take it or leave it.”

Kurt took it. He realised that she knew he was a Jew and the price she had asked reflected that, but he had to have somewhere to stay, and he didn’t know how long it was going to take him to track down his family.

The room she showed him was small and poky, furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers with a mirror and a washstand on which stood a bowl and a ewer of water. The bathroom was down the landing. However, Kurt was grateful to be off the street. He knew that with the way he looked and no luggage, nowhere more salubrious was going to take him. When he looked in the mirror and saw the hollow-cheeked, stubble-faced, pallid ghost that returned his stare, he was amazed that the woman had agreed to let him have the room at any price. Clearly she, too, was facing hard times and couldn’t be too choosy about her guests.

Longing to see his family, Kurt had travelled straight to Munich with little thought given to his appearance. He had only the clothes he’d been arrested in, and they were grubby, hanging off his emaciated frame. His hair had begun to grow again, but sprouted in tufts over his head, where the rough strokes of the camp barber’s razor had shaved him unevenly. His reflection told him that he must change his appearance, and fast. Looking like a convict was as dangerous as looking like a Jew, and he looked like both. First thing in the morning he must do something about it.

As he lay in the narrow bed that night, he considered how to set about finding his family. Where would Ruth have taken them? If it had been him, where would he have gone? His parents were both dead, and Herbert was his only sibling. He had no other family, so there was no lead there. Ruth’s father was dead, but her mother lived in the old family house in Vohldorf. Perhaps Ruth might have taken the children there. Or there was her sister, Edith, who lived in Vienna. Could she have gone there? They’d be safer there, but it was a long way to travel with four small children, and there was the problem of crossing into Austria without passports for the twins. No, he decided, it was more likely that she had gone to her mother’s… if she’d been able to go anywhere. What money had she? If she were destitute where would she go for help? She knew no one else in Munich. To the synagogue, that was the obvious place. But which synagogue? Where were the synagogues here? There was no question of asking. In the morning he would have to wander round and find them for himself.

At last he closed his eyes, and managed to sleep several hours before the nightmares began to crowd his dreams and he woke, as he did so often now, drenched in a cold sweat and shaking.

As soon as it was daylight Kurt left the house and went in search of food. He’d eaten nothing since the previous morning and he was very hungry. He found a workman’s café where he ate some breakfast, after which he felt better and went in search of a street market. He had to conserve the money he had found in the bread oven, but new clothes and some toiletries were a must, and he reckoned that street traders would pay less attention to him, and be cheaper than trying to buy from shops, many of which wouldn’t even let him cross the threshold. He found what he was looking for in a small square, flanked by tall medieval houses, where market traders’ stalls of all sorts were set up round a central fountain. He bought himself a change of clothes from a second-hand clothes stall, a razor and some soap and a small case to carry them in, and hurried back to his room. Once he had washed and shaved and changed into his new clothes, he felt infinitely better. Now he could set out to search for his family without looking like a scarecrow. He pulled his new hat down over his ears so that his peculiar haircut was less visible, buttoned his overcoat against the chill of the wind and headed back out onto the street.

He spent the day looking for synagogues. Once he had found the first one, though the rabbi knew nothing about Ruth, it was easier. Each rabbi he spoke to pointed him in the direction of someone else. Rabbi Rahmer was the fourth that he visited.

“Yes,” said the rabbi. “Your wife was here. She and the children stayed a night in our meeting room and then went to stay with her mother. Somewhere near Stuttgart, I think she said.”

“Vohldorf,” said Kurt.

“Yes, that’s right. Well, she asked us to tell you where she’d gone if you ever came looking for her.” The rabbi gave a sad smile. “I didn’t really think you would.”

“How long ago was she here?”

“Four… five weeks?” The rabbi was vague.

Next morning Kurt took the early train to Stuttgart, and reached Vohldorf by mid-afternoon. It was a cold wet day, but he didn’t mind. The thought of seeing his family, of holding them all in his arms again, buoyed him up, and when he got off the bus in the market square his heart was racing. He had been to his parents-in-law’s house only twice, but he thought he remembered where it was, and set out at a brisk pace. With only one wrong turn, he reached it and saw welcoming light flooding from a window into the damp dusk. The gates were shut, to stop the twins from straying, Kurt supposed, as he opened them and then closed them carefully behind him. For a brief moment he stood outside the front door, then he drew a deep breath and rang the bell.

“What do you want? We’ll have no vagrants here!” The man who had come to the door stared at Kurt belligerently. He was tall and broad, a much larger man than Kurt, and he thrust his head aggressively forward as he spoke.

Kurt took an involuntary step back. “I’m… I’m looking for my wife…” he began.

“Well, she’s not here! Be off, before I set the dogs on you.”

“Frau Heber…” Kurt tried again, though he didn’t like the sound of the dogs he could hear barking inside the house.

“No one called Heber in this house,” snapped the man. “Get lost.” He turned inside and called, “Lotte… let the dogs out!”

Kurt beat a hasty retreat.

“And don’t come back, Jew. We don’t want your sort in this village.”

Kurt hurried away from the house, the sound of the dogs loud on the evening air. He had always liked dogs, until he went to Dachau. There the guard dogs were terrifying, and Kurt knew he would never look at a dog in the same way again.

Once he was out of sight he slowed his pace. There were tears in his eyes as he realised he had lost them all again, and this time he had no trail to follow. Helga Heber had lost her home, and he had no idea where she had gone, nor if Ruth and the children were with her.

“Think!” he admonished himself. “There must be some way I can pick up the trail again. Just take time and think.”

With leaden feet he walked back into the market square. The dusk had deepened to darkness now, but there were still lights in the shops that edged the square, and Kurt decided to ask in those. He chose the grocer’s, and pushed open the door. A large woman in an enveloping white apron was standing behind the counter, chatting to a customer. They both turned as Kurt came in and looked at him with interest. A stranger. Not someone from the village.

“Good evening,” said the shopkeeper pleasantly. “Can I help you?”

“Good evening,” Kurt replied with a smile. “Yes, I am looking for Frau Heber, Frau Helga Heber.”

The shopkeeper’s face hardened. “Are you, indeed?

“Yes,” Kurt kept his smile fixed to his face. “She’s my mother-in-law.”

“Is she now?” The woman waved her hand about the shop. “Well,” she said, “she’s not in here, is she?”

“No. It’s just that she’s moved and I wondered if you could tell me where she is living now. Is she still in the village?”

“No.”

“No. Do you know where she went?”

“No. Now if you aren’t going to buy anything, you can get out. I’ve got work to do.”

Kurt left the shop and stood outside in the square. He saw, now, the sign in the window, which he hadn’t noticed before: No Jews. As soon as he’d mentioned Helga Heber’s name, the woman had realised he must also be a Jew. He looked in through the window of the shop next door, a small general store. Inside a man was unpacking some boxes. There was no sign on this window and Kurt was about to go in when someone bumped into him from behind. He spun round to see the customer from the grocer’s.

“Kreuzstrasse,” she murmured. “She’s in Kreuzstrasse.” But before Kurt could answer, the woman had hurried away across the square without a backward glance and disappeared into the darkness.

Kreuzstrasse. Had he heard her right, and if so where was Kreuzstrasse? It was clear that she didn’t want to be seen talking to him, so he did not try to follow her. She had done what she could. He would have to try and find the place himself. Feeling the eyes of the grocer’s wife upon him, he moved out of the light and walked across the square towards the church. As he reached it, the door opened and the priest came hurrying out. When he saw Kurt, he hesitated and then turned away.

The hesitation was enough. Kurt called across to him, “Excuse me.”

The priest stopped and turned back, “Yes?”

“I’m looking for Kreuzstrasse,” Kurt said. “Please can you tell me where it is?”

For a moment the priest said nothing, and Kurt was about to ask again when he pointed down a lane that ran off the square. “Down there,” he said. “There’s an alley at the end of the lane, that’s Kreuzstrasse.”

“Thank you,” Kurt said fervently, “thank you very much.”

The priest seemed about to say something else, but thought better of it, and with a brief nod, he, too, turned and hurried away.

Kurt followed the directions he’d been given, and found himself in the alley. There were three tiny houses there, each clothed in darkness. Surely this couldn’t be where his mother-in-law was living. He stood outside in the silent street, wondering which house she lived in. There was no sign of life in any of them, no smoke from the chimneys, no chink of light from the dark windows. Was everybody out? Surely someone would be at home on such a cold and miserable evening. Kurt walked up to the front of the middle house. In the faint light of a streetlamp at the end of the alley, he could see that the front window had been broken and had been patched with cardboard. Despite the dampness in the air, the cardboard was still relatively dry; it couldn’t have been there for very long. Someone must be living here. He knocked on the door. The sound of the knock seemed swallowed by the darkness, so he knocked again, more loudly, but there was no reply. He pressed his ear to the door in the hope of hearing movement inside, but there was nothing. He was about to turn away and try one of the other houses, when, on impulse, he tried the handle. To his astonishment the door opened. He pushed it wide and then stepping just inside, called out.

“Is there anyone there?” His words hung in the silence, but there was no reply. Cautiously he went inside and found himself in a kitchen, the only room downstairs. He felt for a light switch, but when he pressed it nothing happened. Feeling his way across the room he found the stove. It was cold. The last fire had been some time ago. As he felt round the top of the stove his fingers found a stub of candle on a saucer and a box of matches. Kurt struck a match and lit the candle. Shadows jumped around him as he held it high to look at the room.

There was a wooden table, two old chairs, some plates on a shelf, and a tin basin on a stand. He looked at the window. It had been carefully patched, but when he looked on the floor he found several tiny shards of glass. Kurt went up the narrow staircase to the two tiny rooms above. Here there was no furniture at all, but in each room an old mattress lay on the floor. The rooms were freezing cold, but the mattresses were not damp. They had been used fairly recently, Kurt thought. He went downstairs again. Had Ruth and the children really all been living here with her mother, or had they been in one of the other houses? Shielding the flickering candle with his hand he went back out into the alley and looked at the other two houses. He tried the one on the left, and when there was no reply to his knock he tried the door. It opened reluctantly, squeaking on its hinges. This house was the same as the other, except that it was clear no one had lived here for months. Cobwebs festooned the ceiling, there was no furniture at all, and the stale smell of damp pervaded the room. Holding the candle high, Kurt saw that there were a few sticks heaped beside the stove, but otherwise the room was empty. He did not bother to go upstairs. No one lived here, it must have been deserted for years. Carefully he closed the front door and turned to the third house. The door to this one did not open, and there was no reply when he knocked. He pressed his face against the filthy window that gave onto the kitchen, holding the candle against the glass, but the flame reflected back at him, and he could see nothing.

Then it dawned on him; the middle house, despite being sparsely furnished and cold, was clean. There were no cobwebs hanging in the corners, or trailing down to tickle his face. The floor had been swept, the stacked plates were clean, the surface of the table, though old, had been scrubbed. If Helga had lived in Kreuzstrasse, then it was in this house, and if Helga had lived here so had Ruth and the children. Kurt stood in the kitchen once more and drew in deep breaths, trying to sense the presence of his family. It was cold here, but it had been a roof over their heads, so why had they left?

He could go no further tonight, and so decided to sleep in the house and try and find out where they had gone in the morning. It was bitterly cold, so he crept back to the house next door and scooping up the pile of sticks carried it back and lit the stove. The leaping flames made the grim little kitchen more cheerful. He had nothing to eat, but at least he had a roof over his head. He heated some water on the stove and drank it, grateful for the warmth it brought. He dragged one of the mattresses down the stairs. Wrapped in his overcoat, Kurt lay down in front of the stove; and with Bella, Inge’s doll, held tightly against his cheek, he tried to sleep. But despair crept up on him once more as he realised that he had missed them again, and as he lay in the flickering light cast by the flames, he began to weep. The trail had gone cold, and he was no nearer to finding Ruth and the children.

Finally Kurt slept, and when he awoke the fire had gone out and he was stiff and cold. The grey of dawn was lightening the sky and he was able to see his surroundings properly for the first time. From the window at the back he could see an outhouse in an overgrown yard. Had his family really been reduced to this? A tap outside the front door and a privy in the garden? Again he searched the rest of the house, and it was upstairs in one of the bedrooms that he made his discovery. Beneath the old mattress he found a piece of paper, and on it was written, An Elephant Story for the Twins. Once upon a time there was an elephant and he lived in the jungle with his mummy and daddy. They hid among the trees where no one could find them… Kurt stared at the paper and the writing, Laura’s writing. Laura writing a story for her little brothers as she so often did. They had been here. Now he knew for sure. They had been here living in this house; but why on earth had they moved? Had they been forced to move? Turned out, even from this hovel of a home? He would have to try and find out.

If I knew why they’d gone, he thought, I might be able to work out where they’ve gone.

It was hunger that drove Kurt back to the market square. He had to get something to eat, as he’d had nothing since he’d got on the bus for Vohldorf yesterday. He looked round the shops that fronted the old cobbled square. He was determined not to go back into the grocer’s unless he absolutely had to. On the opposite side, beyond the fountain, he saw a bakery, and he decided to try his luck there. As well as selling bread and pastries, the little shop offered a couple of white-clothed tables, and Kurt was served hot coffee, a pancake and a large slice of apple tart. He also bought fresh bread and another apple tart to take back to the house. Feeling much refreshed, he left the bakery and walked back towards Kreuzstrasse. The grocer’s wife was standing outside her shop talking to a man with a pony cart. When she saw Kurt leaving the bakery, she pointed at him and the man turned round to look. She was gesticulating, and Kurt could imagine her tirade about Jews. He paid no attention, just kept on walking as if he hadn’t seen her, but as he turned into the lane beside the church he heard her shout, “Dirty Jew! We don’t want your sort in our village! Dirty Jew!”

Kurt gave no indication that he’d heard her, simply walked round the corner and into the lane. He let himself back into the house, put his purchases onto the table and sat down to consider what to do next. The girl in the bakery hadn’t realised that he was a Jew, she had served him quite happily, and thinking back to the night before, it was only after he had mentioned Helga Heber by name that the woman in the grocer’s had become hostile. With his dark hair, dark eyes and a high-bridged nose, Kurt knew he had a Semitic cast to his features, but his face did not shriek “Jew” and he could pass unnoticed if he was careful. He had never worn a beard, as many of his friends and neighbours had, but now he was going to be extra careful about shaving, keeping his face smooth and unremarkable. He filled the tin basin from the tap outside the house and got out his razor. As he lathered a little of his precious soap onto his face, there was a knock at the door. Kurt turned, but before he could go to the door it opened and a man slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. It was the man who had been talking with the grocer’s wife.

Kurt stood, razor in hand, face half-covered in soap. “What the – ?” he began.

“No time to talk,” hissed the man. “You’re Frau Heber’s son-in-law?”

“Yes, but…”

“My name’s Franz Beider. I’ve known Frau Heber for many years. You have to get away from here, now, at once.”

“But…”

“Don’t hesitate, man, there’s no time. The woman at the grocer’s, Frau Wessel, is going to the Gestapo to report you for moving in here. You have to leave now. They will be here within half an hour to arrest you.”

Kurt turned pale. He wiped the soap from his cheeks and said shakily, “But where shall I go? They’ll soon pick me up in this tiny place.”

“Get your stuff and go out the back. I’ll bring my cart along that lane and pick you up. Hurry, man, they’ll be here any time.” Franz Beider went to the front window and looked out into the alley. “I’ll be there in five minutes. If you aren’t, I shan’t wait.”

“But why?” began Kurt, his mind racing. Could he trust this man who only moments ago had been talking to a strongly anti-Semitic woman? Why would he offer help? Was it a trap? Then a mental picture of the parade ground at Dachau flashed into his mind and the decision was made. “Thank you,” was all he could say.

“We’re not all Nazi scum round here,” Franz Beider said. “Now, get a move on. If you aren’t there,” he repeated, “I shan’t wait.” With another anxious look into the street, he opened the door and disappeared.

For a moment Kurt stood frozen to the spot, then he grabbed his few possessions and the food he had just bought at the bakery, and crammed them into his case. It was clear someone had passed the night in the house, but he could do nothing about that. Frau Wessel would have told them that already, so it hardly mattered. He locked the front door, though he knew that wouldn’t keep anyone out for long, then he opened the small door that led out into the backyard. It was overlooked by the other two houses, but no other buildings. He hurried past the rickety outhouse, and tossing the case over ahead of him, clambered over the back wall into the lane beyond. There was nowhere to hide, and as he waited for Franz Beider to appear, Kurt was terrified that someone else might come into the lane and see him waiting. After what seemed an age, he heard the unhurried clip-clop of a horse’s hoofs, and then the pony cart came round the corner, with Franz sitting up on the driver’s seat. As soon as he drew level with Kurt, he jumped down from the cart.

“Into the back,” he said. “Hurry! Under the logs.”

Kurt scrambled up onto the cart and Franz pushed the little suitcase in with him before covering him with a tarpaulin. Then he began piling logs on top of him. They were heavy and sharp, and pressed painfully into his body, but Kurt lay still as the weight increased, and the log load covered the shape of his body under the tarpaulin.

“For God’s sake don’t move,” Franz instructed him. “Whatever happens don’t move until I let you out. Both our lives are at stake here.”

With the breath all but crushed out of him, Kurt could do little more than grunt in reply. He felt the cart tilt as Franz climbed back up onto the box, and then the rocking movement as the cart turned and began to trundle back along the lane. Kurt had no idea where they were going, he simply lay as still as he could in the bumping cart and prayed that they wouldn’t be stopped.

The journey became even more uncomfortable as the cart entered the market square, jolting its way across the cobbles. Some of the logs shifted and dug into new and different parts of his body, but Kurt didn’t dare ease himself underneath them for fear of them moving even more and revealing him underneath. As they rumbled slowly across the square he heard a shout, and the sound of marching feet. The cart slowed to a halt as the feet tramped past. Frau Wessel had clearly made good her threat and had been to the Gestapo; SS troops had been summoned from the training camp. Then he heard her voice.

“You see, Herr Beider?” she called. “I was right. The Gestapo did want to hear that another dirty Jew had moved in.”

“Indeed, Frau Wessel,” Kurt heard his driver reply. “You were quite right. No doubt they’ll find him hiding in his hole.”

The woman laughed. “We’ll get rid of them all in the end, Herr Beider. We’ll get rid of them all in the end.”

“And good riddance,” agreed Herr Beider. Then he clicked his tongue and the horse moved on again.

Once they had left the cobbled square the road was smoother and the horse and cart picked up a little more speed, but it was another half hour before it creaked to a halt. Kurt could hear the sound of someone chopping wood. He stayed absolutely still under the logs, hardly daring to breathe.

“Dieter!” Kurt heard Franz call. “Dieter!”

The chopping stopped and a voice called back, “Yes, Herr Beider?”

Footsteps approached the cart and a young man’s voice said, “You want me to unload the cart?”

“No, not now. You can take that barrow-load of logs I promised your mother, and eat with her. Back here in an hour though, all right?”

“Yes, sir! Thank you, sir! Ma’ll be very grateful for the logs.”

“Take the big barrow and load it up, then,” ordered his boss.

Kurt heard Dieter tossing logs into a metal barrow, and then the rattle of it being wheeled away.

“Back in an hour, sir,” called Dieter, “and thanks again for the logs.”

Kurt tried to ease the pain in his legs, but as he moved he heard Franz Beider hiss, “Stay still!” He froze.

It seemed an age before Franz Beider began unloading the logs from the cart. When he finally emerged from under the tarpaulin, Kurt was grubby, bruised and ached all over. Franz helped him down, steadying him as he tried to stand on stiff and painful legs. They were in a yard beside an old stone house. All round the yard were piles of logs, stacked neatly under sheltering roofs to keep them dry. An axe lay on the ground beside a pile of split logs. On the far side of the yard there was a stable and a barn, with a hayloft above; clearly where Franz kept his horse and cart.

“Go into the barn and climb up into the hayloft,” instructed Franz. “I doubt anyone will come looking for you here, but I don’t want you found in the house.”

“Of course,” Kurt agreed. “If I am found here, you’ll know nothing about it.” He held out his hand to the woodman, who took it. “Thank you, Herr Beider, for getting me away, for risking your own life.”

Franz Beider nodded, and then said, “Up to the hayloft then. I’ll bring you some food and water in a little while.” He gave Kurt a brief smile. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I live alone and Dieter only comes in during the day. You should be safe here for a while, till we can get you right away.”

Kurt settled himself in the hay, and with the winter sun shining in through the skylight in the roof, warm and comfortable for the first time in days, fell into a deep sleep. He didn’t hear the horse and cart leave the yard again, nor did he hear it return. When he woke it was to find dusk was falling. Franz stood over him with a basket in his hand.

“You’ve slept well,” Franz said, putting the basket down in the hay. “Here, eat something.” He handed him some bread and cheese, and as Kurt ate it he told him what was going on in the village.

“I went back with the cart and made my usual deliveries,” he said. “The SS had been to the house and found you’d gone, so they’ve been searching for you. They asked me if I’d seen anyone on the road, and I told them I hadn’t. Frau Wessel is having her day, telling everyone how she flushed you out. They’re searching the surrounding area, but I doubt if they’ll worry too much about finding you. All they want to be sure of is that you’ve gone.”

Kurt drank thirstily from the bottle of water that was in the basket and then asked the question that had been consuming him ever since he had climbed into the cart.

“Did the same thing happen to my family? Did the Gestapo come for them too?”

“No, they left in time. Frau Heber had to move from her old house some time ago, but no one took much notice of her once she was living in Kreuzstrasse… not until Ruth turned up with the children.”

“You know Ruth?” breathed Kurt.

Franz smiled. “Known her since she was a child. Bit of a surprise to find she had four kiddies, though.”

“So, tell me what’s happened to them,” begged Kurt. “I’ve been trying to find them.”

“They left a few days ago,” replied Franz. “Things were getting very difficult for them. The house was far too small for so many, the Wessels were charging them exorbitant prices for food, and when winter came on they could have died of cold in that house. I did get some logs to them, but I couldn’t do it regular, like. And then the Hitler Youth began to take an interest in them.”

“So, where have they gone?”

Franz shook his head. “I don’t know. They took the bus to Stuttgart, but where they were going from there I wouldn’t know. Didn’t know they were actually leaving until I saw them in the square that morning, getting on the bus.” He thought for a moment and then added, “The driver wasn’t keen to take them, but they showed him some paper or other, and he let them get on.”

Kurt stayed in Franz Beider’s hayloft for two more days. Dieter arrived every morning and spent the day working in the yard, sawing up waiting tree trunks, chopping and stacking logs. While he was there, Kurt stayed silently in the hay, listening to the work going on below. He offered to chop logs himself when Dieter had gone, but Franz refused his offer.

“Can’t risk you being surprised in the yard,” he said. “They’re still out looking for you.”

Two days later, when Dieter had finished his day’s work, Franz climbed up into the loft. “It’s time to move you out,” he said as Kurt ate the food he had brought. “Tomorrow I’ll hide you in the cart again and take you over to Dost. It’s a small town, on the main line to Stuttgart, you’ll be able to catch a train from there.” He cut short Kurt’s thanks. “It won’t be a comfortable journey,” he warned. “I’m afraid you’ll have to travel under the logs again. We pass within a mile or two of the SS camp.” He gave Kurt one of his rare smiles and said, “I’d better bring you some water to shave! You really do look like an undesirable vagrant, now.”

Early next morning, while it was still dark, Kurt was once again hidden under the tarpaulin, weighed down with logs. As daylight crept into the sky, Franz put the horse in the shafts and they set out. They trundled along the country lanes, and occasionally there would be a shouted greeting, which Franz answered cheerfully, but the cart never stopped.

Kurt lost track of time. The weight of the logs seemed to increase as they travelled, until he felt that he was being crushed into one huge bruise. He had no idea how long they had been on the road, but at last he heard Franz say, “We’re coming to the outskirts of Dost now. I’m going to let you out here.”

The cart finally halted, and moments later Franz was hauling Kurt out from under the woodpile. As before, Kurt was so stiff and sore he could hardly stand, but he slipped over the back of the cart and staggered to his feet. As soon as he was clear, Franz started reloading the logs. They were in a small clearing at the edge of a wood, partially concealed from the road by the trees and underbrush.

“We can’t stay here long,” he said. “Get yourself dusted down, or you really will cause comment when you get to the town.”

Obediently Kurt brushed at his trousers and coat, which were both covered in sawdust. He combed the dust from his hair, and spitting on his hands wiped the dirt from his face as best he could. The only good thing about the tarpaulin and the logs was that they had kept him comparatively warm. Now even standing in the shelter of the little wood, Kurt realised how cold it had become. He shivered, and blew on his fingers.

“Could snow later,” Franz said as he tossed the last of the logs back onto the cart. “You should try and catch a train today. Go anywhere. Just don’t stay in Dost, or you may attract unwanted attention to yourself.” He looked across at Kurt. “This is as far as I can take you,” he said. “There is nowhere nearer the town to let you get off unseen.” He reached into the cart and handed Kurt a packet of bread and cheese. “Something to keep you going,” he said.

Kurt took the parcel and slipped it into his pocket. “I don’t know how to thank you…” he began, but Franz Beider waved the words away.

“One day this madness will end,” he said, “then come back and thank me. I’ll be pleased to see you. Good luck and God speed.” He swung himself up onto the cart once more, and gathering the reins, clicked his tongue to his horse and was off, back the way they had come.

Kurt watched him from the cover of the trees until he was out of sight, then he picked up his suitcase and began to walk into the town in search of the railway station.