10

Kurt got off the train in Munich. When Franz Beider had dropped him outside Dost, Kurt followed his advice and made straight for the railway station. He would get on the first train that came along, he decided, wherever it was going. It was going to Munich, so that was where he went.

When he arrived, Kurt left the station quickly, moving out onto the street amid the crowd of disembarking passengers, and headed back to the house where he had rented the room before. Walking quietly up to the front door, he knocked. No one came to the door, but there was a slight movement at the window beside him. He turned to see who was there, but the curtains were still and there was no sign of anybody. Yet Kurt was sure that he hadn’t imagined it; there had definitely been someone peeping from the window to see who was outside.

And now they know, Kurt thought ruefully, they aren’t going to open the door. He would have to find somewhere else to stay. He could, he supposed, go back to the station, but it was the kind of place the Gestapo made regular sweeps, picking up undesirables… like him.

He found a small café and bought himself a plate of stew. He had long since given up worrying about the dietary rules he had followed all his life. There was no question of kosher food in Dachau. You ate whatever you could get hold of, and were grateful.

Feeling better for the hot food, Kurt considered what he should do next. Get out of Munich, he decided. Time was running out, he had only another four days in which to produce the deeds to his home at the Jewish Emigration Office, and to get his family out of the country… or he would be back in Dachau. He broke out into a cold sweat at the thought of the camp. Whatever happened, he was not going back there.

If I can’t find Ruth and the children in the next couple of days, then I have to disappear myself, he thought. I’ve nowhere to hide, so I’ll have to keep moving. Try and keep one step ahead of the SS who will be looking for me.

He had no doubt that if he did not turn up with the documents as arranged, Oberführer Loritz would have his hounds out on the trail to bring him back. Defying an SS officer was an extremely dangerous thing to do, and although Kurt had no alternative unless he found Ruth and the title deeds, there would be no explaining that to Oberführer Loritz… and he would take delight in exacting his revenge.

There’s only one thing to do, Kurt thought as he drained the last of his coffee, I must try and get out of the country myself. I’ll never find them while I’m on the run in Germany.

The waitress was beginning to eye him suspiciously, and not wishing to draw further attention to himself, Kurt got to his feet, paid his bill with some of his fast dwindling cash and went out into the street. It was bitterly cold and he drew his thin overcoat around him, but the biting wind drilled through its fabric as if it wasn’t there. He set off at a brisk pace, not because he was in any hurry, but simply to try and keep warm. Also important, he thought, to look purposeful, as if I’ve got somewhere to go, something pressing to do.

As he strode along the street he continued to consider his options. Ruth and Helga must have taken the children to Edith, he thought. That’s the obvious place for them all to go. Franz said that Helga Heber was with them now. Surely they would head for the only safe place where they had family. Vienna.

He knew Ruth had her passport, with the girls on it. Had she managed to get the twins put on as well? She also had his passport, or he assumed she did, as it, too, had been hidden in the deed box. But much good did that do him. He tried once again to put himself in Ruth’s shoes. He knew she had left nothing with the Meyers when she’d left Gerbergasse, but then she had thought she was going to safety with Herbert in Munich. If she’d had to leave the country she’d know he couldn’t follow unless he had his passport.

If only I could get in touch with her somehow, he thought, and cursed himself that he did not know the address or telephone number of his sister-in-law, and had no way of discovering it. Even if David Bernstein’s number was listed in the Vienna telephone book, where was Kurt going to find one? He knew David was a surgeon, but he had no idea in which hospital he worked. Kurt didn’t know the names of any hospitals in Vienna. There was no way at the present time that Kurt could get in touch with Ruth or her sister.

She must have my passport, Kurt decided. What would she do with it? What would I do with it if it were me? I’d try and get it to her; try and think of somewhere where she might think to look for it. “There’s only one place,” he said aloud, “and that’s the Meyers’. So I must go back to Kirnheim.”

Once that decision was made Kurt felt better. He now had a purpose, but before he could put it into action, he had another problem to solve… where to sleep the night. It was far too cold… and far too dangerous… to spend the night out on the streets. He had to find somewhere to stay and quickly. It was already beginning to get dark and he could feel the first spatter of rain on the wind.

Who would help a Jew? Other Jews… maybe. Almost certainly no one else. Kurt remembered the rabbi who had helped Ruth and the children, and had passed on the message to him when he traced them there. Rabbi Rahmer.

He let the family sleep in the meeting room behind the synagogue, Kurt thought, perhaps he’ll let me do the same.

Grasping his small suitcase firmly, he set off in the direction of the synagogue. He had only a vague recollection of exactly where it was and the rain was turning to sleet before he finally presented himself at the door of the rabbi’s house. Frau Rahmer opened the door, and confronted by a strange man in a soaking wet overcoat with water streaming off his hat, began to close the door again.

“Frau Rahmer?” Kurt placed an involuntary hand on the door to stop it closing. “Is the rabbi at home?”

Frau Rahmer did not open the door again, but neither did she continue to close it. She regarded the stranger through the gap and said, “Who wants him?”

“My name is Kurt Friedman, you were kind enough to give my wife and children shelter some weeks ago.”

Frau Rahmer peered at Kurt more closely, opening the door a little more to do so. It was against her nature to turn away anyone who was in need of help, but in these increasingly difficult and dangerous times one had to be unusually careful. Still she didn’t want him to be seen standing on her doorstep either; reported in the wrong quarter, that too could be dangerous.

“You’d better come in,” she said, pulling the door wider to let him enter, and closing it swiftly behind him. “Wait there. I’ll call my husband.”

Kurt waited, dripping on the hall mat, as she moved away and called down a passageway behind her, “Manny, there’s someone to see you.”

A door opened and the rabbi whom Kurt had met the previous week emerged. Rabbi Rahmer took one look at him and said, “You’d better come into my study.” Turning to his wife he said, “I think our friend would welcome a hot drink, Ruth.”

Frau Rahmer nodded and disappeared through another door. The rabbi led Kurt into his study.

“Ruth is my wife’s name, too,” Kurt said as he followed the rabbi into the room.

“I know,” the rabbi replied. He waved Kurt to a chair. “Please take off your wet coat.” And as Kurt did as he was bid he went on, “So you didn’t find her.”

“No,” Kurt replied. “She… they had to move on. And now I am in trouble, it’s a long story…”

The rabbi raised his hand and said abruptly, “Stop! I don’t want to hear of your trouble. We all have enough of our own. So, no long story, just tell me why you have come here, now.”

“Simply to ask if I may sleep in the meeting room at the back of your synagogue… just for one night.”

“You ask a good deal from someone you don’t know,” the rabbi said sharply.

“I ask you as a pastor who looks after his congregation,” replied Kurt. “I have nowhere else to turn. If I sleep out tonight, I shall die of cold. If I am picked up, I will be arrested. All I ask of you is a safe haven for one night. Tomorrow I leave Munich, and you’ll never see me again.”

“You ask me something that may bring danger to my family and to my congregation,” the rabbi pointed out, “if you are a wanted man.”

“I’m not a wanted man,” Kurt replied firmly. “Not for another four days,” he added silently. “I am still searching for my wife and children. All I need is a place to stay for tonight before I move on after them.”

There was a tap on the door and Frau Rahmer appeared carrying a tray. On it were two cups of coffee. She put it on the rabbi’s desk and disappeared again without a word.

Rabbi Rahmer gestured to the cups. “Take one,” he said, “it’s all I can offer you.” He reached for a cup himself, and Kurt took the other.

“Please, Rabbi, in the name of charity, let me sleep in the meeting room.”

“The synagogue is already locked for the night. I’m afraid I have to lock up as soon as it gets dark these days,” said the rabbi. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. I think, when you’ve drunk your coffee, you should leave.”

Kurt downed the coffee, almost scalding his mouth as he did so. It wasn’t coffee at all, just hot brown liquid, but at least it was hot.

He got to his feet and pulled the damp coat round his shoulders. “Thank you, Rabbi,” he said. “I quite understand your reluctance. You have to protect your own.”

The rabbi stood as well, and calling to his wife said, “Herr Friedman is leaving now, Ruth. Please see him out.” He didn’t extend his hand, merely nodded to Kurt and sat back down behind his desk. Kurt was dismissed, and Rabbi Rahmer gave his attention to the papers in front of him.

Kurt turned and left the room, following Frau Rahmer to the front door. As she opened it she said softly, “The meeting room has a broken window. Smashed by the Hitler Youth. If my husband doesn’t get it mended soon, anyone will be able to get in.” She held out her hand. “Goodbye, Herr Friedman, I hope you find your family soon.”

The door closed behind him and Kurt found himself back in the biting March wind. He walked away from the house and on up the street without so much as a glance at the synagogue opposite, not slowing his pace until he had rounded the corner and was out of sight of the rabbi’s house. Then he drew into the shadow of an alleyway and considered what to do.

Had he understood Frau Rahmer’s words aright? Was she telling him how to get into the back of the meeting room? Suggesting that he might rest there for the night after all? But would the rabbi think of that, too? Would he come out and check that his visitor hadn’t tried to break in? Kurt decided that he had to take the risk. Better to be caught by an angry rabbi when camping in his meeting room than by a Gestapo patrol out in the street at night. He would wait for a quarter of an hour and then he would try and get into the meeting room through the window. He walked back a little way until, from the shadow of a tree, he could see the rabbi’s front door. The minutes ticked by and it remained shut. There was no sign of the rabbi or his wife.

Kurt was chilled to the bone now, the wind knifing through his wet overcoat as he stood and waited. Frost was forming on the road and on the trunk of the tree that sheltered him. The sky was beginning to clear, and a half-moon sailed into the sky, lightening the street and deepening the shadows. At last Kurt thought it must be safe to try his luck. He looked at the outside of the synagogue and realised that the meeting room could not be seen from where he was. The alley he’d sheltered in earlier must run round the back of the building, so he would not be visible to any casual passer-by.

Stiff with cold, his teeth beginning to chatter, Kurt made his way back to the alley, and felt his way along it. It was almost pitch dark in here as there were no streetlamps and the moonlight did not penetrate between the high walls that enclosed it. The building on the opposite side had no windows, but halfway along there was a gate in the wall, which Kurt assumed led directly into someone’s garden. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Kurt found that he could see more than he’d at first thought. Running his hands along the brickwork, he found a window, and sure enough the glass had been smashed, leaving jagged shards jutting from the frame. Pulling his hand up inside his coat sleeve, Kurt carefully pushed his arm through the frame and reached inside. The window was a casement, and it was not long before he had found the catch to release it. The catch was stiff, but, by shaking it up and down, he gradually loosened it until he was at last able to open the window. The rusty hinges screeched in protest as he pulled it open and he froze. Had anyone heard? The people who lived in the next house? Again Kurt waited, poised for flight if there should be a shout, a light, or the sound of investigating footsteps. But the night remained silent around him and he eased the window again. The hinges creaked again, but this time he was ready for the sound and it didn’t seem quite so loud. It was enough, the gap was now wide enough for him to slide inside. One of the shards caught his coat and tore the sleeve, but apart from that he found himself inside, undamaged. Very gently he eased the window almost closed again. He didn’t want anyone passing down the alley to notice that it had been opened.

He had no torch, and wouldn’t have used it if he had, but a shaft of moonlight pierced the darkness through a window on the opposite side of the room, so he had enough light to make out his surroundings. The room was quite large, with chairs and tables stacked round the walls, ready for use. Several old armchairs stood in a group in front of a large iron stove at one end, and there were two large cupboards at the other end. The stove was quite cold, all the previous ashes swept away. No fuel was piled beside it, and Kurt could see nothing with which he could light a fire even if he dared. He had no idea who would be able to see lights in these windows. It was nearly as cold as the street outside, except there was no wind, and Kurt wondered, if he allowed himself to go to sleep, whether he would ever wake up again.

Still, he thought, at least I am off the streets. I should be safe here until the morning. He took off his wet coat and hung it over a chair in the vain hope that it might dry a little by the morning. Then he investigated the cupboards at the end of the room. They were locked, and unwilling to damage anything that might reveal he had been there, he didn’t try and force them open. He was still shivering and so he began to do physical jerks. He thought back to his days at primary school when they had been made to do exercises before class every day. He swung his arms, raised his feet high, running on the spot, jumped, feet together, hopped round the room first on one leg and then on the other. As the blood began to flow more quickly through his veins, he began to feel a little warmer. He opened his suitcase and got out the few clothes that were inside it. He pulled them all on over what he was already wearing in an effort to retain the heat he had just generated.

I must try and get some sleep, he thought, and make an early start in the morning. He pulled two of the old armchairs together to make him a short bed. It was not long enough for him to lie straight, but if he curled himself into the foetal position, he could just about fit, and the sheltering arms of the chairs gave an illusion of warmth.

Kurt awoke several hours later, cold and stiff. His neck ached and one of his arms had gone to sleep. It was still dark outside, but it was, Kurt decided, a lightening darkness. It must be almost morning. He got out of the makeshift bed and stretched before going through the routine of physical jerks he had done the night before. Gradually warmth began to creep back into his body, but his stomach rumbled for lack of food. Kurt took out his money and counted it. He had enough for a cheap meal or a ticket back to Kirnheim… not both.

Time was not on his side, Kurt knew, so he would have to go hungry. He needed to get to Kirnheim, to the Meyers, before the last three days of his deadline ran out. As soon as the sky lightened to grey daylight, Kurt checked that there was no sign that he had used the room, put on his still-damp overcoat and picked up his now empty suitcase. He would still carry it, he thought, it gave him an air of respectability. He dropped the case out of the window and then climbed out into the alley. When he emerged at the far end he turned in the opposite direction from the rabbi’s house. No point in risking being seen again now. He walked briskly back to the centre of the city, and when he reached the early bustle of the station bought himself a ticket to Kirnheim.

It was mid-morning before Kurt found himself at the end of Gerbergasse. The shops were all open and people were going about their business. Further down the street he could see the Meyers’ bakery, and beyond it on the opposite side the ruined shell of his own grocery. At least that is what he thought he saw until, as he walked slowly down the street, he realised that things had changed. Work on restoring the building had begun. A new, sturdy door stood open, with workmen going in and out from a van parked in the street outside.

Kurt felt a shudder of fear. Who had instigated this work? He had passed the deeds to no one yet. Who would spend money rebuilding the place if it didn’t belong to him? Kurt turned away and walked back up the street, out of sight, to consider this development and to decide what to do next. Oberführer Loritz must have decided not to wait for the deed before he seized the property.

If I had turned up at the Jewish Affairs Office in Munich with the deeds, Kurt thought with a stab of panic, he would probably have taken them and arrested me again anyway.

The more he thought about this, the more certain Kurt was that he was right. The Oberführer had had no intention of letting Kurt and his family leave Germany, he had simply used that as a way of appropriating a piece of property. Once he’d got his hands on the deeds, Kurt would have been back in Dachau. The icy chill of terror ran through him at the thought of his narrow escape. Thank God he hadn’t had the deeds, thank God he hadn’t taken them and handed them in. Now he had absolutely nothing in the world, no home, no money and nothing to bargain with.

But I’m still alive and I’m still free, Kurt thought with a surge of adrenaline. They haven’t won yet! But as quickly as the rush went through him it drained away again, leaving him standing two hundred yards from his home, cold and frightened, trying to think what to do next.

Had Ruth thought of sending his passport to the Meyers? When he had left them last time, they were terrified. The arrival of the SS patrol and his own narrow escape from them had put the Meyers in danger. Even if Ruth had sent the passport, would they have held on to it? Wouldn’t they simply have destroyed it, afraid to hold something belonging to another Jew, a Jew on the run? He could understand that they might. He might, too, in the same situation, if it put any of his family at risk. But without a passport, Kurt was going to find it almost impossible to escape. It must be worth the risk just to go and ask them. He wouldn’t stay in the shop a moment longer than necessary. All he had to ask was, “Has a parcel arrived for me?”

Kurt knew that if he were going to do it, he had to do it now, before his own nerve broke. He retraced his steps to the top of Gerbergasse and walked briskly down to the bakery. The door was closed, but the bread and pastries were laid out in the window. Without looking across at the building opposite, Kurt pushed open the door and went in.

Leo Meyer was behind the counter, serving a customer. When he saw who had walked into the shop, the colour drained from his face, and the words he had been saying dried on his lips. At this reaction the woman being served turned round, and Kurt saw that it was Rudy Stein’s wife. She stared at him for a moment, as if she’d seen a ghost, and then with a cry she pushed past him and fled from the shop.

“Kurt!” Leo’s voice was a croak. “I thought you were long gone. What brings you back here?”

“I’m still looking for my family,” Kurt replied. “And I wondered, Leo, if by any chance Ruth had sent anything to me, here, to your address.”

Leo walked across the shop and flipped the open sign to closed, drawing the bolt across, turning the key in the lock and then pocketing it. “Something did come for you not long ago,” he said. “I put it in my bureau upstairs for safekeeping. If you’ll wait here, I’ll go and fetch it for you.” Without pausing for a reply, Leo went through the back of the shop and up the stairs to the apartment above. Kurt waited a moment and then followed him. He thought he heard a voice, and paused on the stairs; Leah must be up here. He knocked on the door and went in; Leo was standing by his bureau, but there was no one else in the room.

“I thought Leah was here,” Kurt said, looking round. “I thought I heard a voice.”

“No, she’s away,” Leo said. “I talk to myself… it’s a sign of old age. Look, here’s the packet that came for you. It was posted in Vienna. If it’s from Ruth that must mean they’re safe, mustn’t it? You’ll be able to go and find them there.”

Leo thrust the package into Kurt’s hand. “Go ahead and open it,” he said. “I can guess how much you are longing for news of them.”

Kurt was about to rip the brown paper from the parcel when he saw that it already had a tear across the top. He looked up sharply. “Did you open it, Leo?”

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.”

“War?”

“Oh yes,” Paul nodded his head as if in confirmation, “there will be one, mark my words. Eventually the world will realise what Hitler is up to, but, until they do, the Nazis try to keep the lid on what is actually happening in Germany.”

“So you think the Gestapo opened this parcel before it reached the Meyers?”

“Almost certainly. And when they saw what it contained they decided to set a trap.”

“They took Leah,” Kurt said slowly, “and told Leo that he must tell them immediately if I turned up.”

“It would seem that way.”

“But what would have happened if I hadn’t turned up?” wondered Kurt.

Paul shrugged. “They would probably have held on to her and used Leo as a spy in other ways.”

“Leo said she was away when I asked,” mused Kurt. “That must be the line he’s had to use.”

“He would be no use to the Gestapo if everyone knew that they were holding her hostage. Leo has to have credibility or people won’t tell him anything he can pass on. I doubt if you are the only one he has betrayed.”

“I’d probably do the same if they were holding Ruth,” admitted Kurt.

“Would you? Well, one never knows until one is in that position, so it’s not fair to judge. However, I am in the happy, or unhappy position, of having no one they can hold hostage. If they come for me it’s only I who will suffer.”

Kurt tore the brown paper wrapping from the packet and saw that it did indeed contain his passport… and to his delight a letter written in Ruth’s strong, upright hand.

“Leave it till I’ve gone,” said Paul. “You’ll want to read that when you’re alone. Now, I suggest you stay here for the night. You should be safe and warm. I’ll go home as usual, and come back in the morning with some more food and some different clothes for you. You’re quite right, they will know about the boiler suit now.” The old man got up and checked the curtains were covering the windows and no crack of light would shine through. “Keep the stove alight,” he said, “there’s plenty of wood. I’ll be back to open the shop in the morning.” He showed Kurt the lavatory, with basin and toilet, and then putting on his overcoat went to the door.

“I’ll lock you in,” he said. “Try and get some sleep.”

As soon as he was alone, Kurt ripped off the last of the brown paper and took out the letter from Ruth. It was written on thick, stiff notepaper, her sister’s address and telephone number printed in heavy dark type in the top right-hand corner:

My darling Kurt,

I don’t know if you will ever get this letter. I have hesitated to send it to the Meyers as I know Leah was very worried that the post was no longer private and asked me not to write to her again. However, I’ve had to take the risk. You need the enclosed. We are all safely at Edith’s now, Mother included. I won’t go into all that has happened to us, but should tell you that the price of our being allowed to leave Germany was the title deeds to the shop and apartment. Perhaps I shouldn’t have handed them over, as they were not mine, but it seemed a small price to pay for our children’s safety… their lives even. Things had been making life impossible both in Munich and Vohldorf, and so I did what I thought necessary.

Dearest Kurt, I have no idea where you are. Maybe you’re still in prison somewhere, but if you do get this letter please come to us. The enclosed should make it easier for you to leave Germany and join us here.

Obviously we cannot stay with Edith and David indefinitely, so we shall find a home of our own in the next few days, for Mother, me and the children. They are all well, you’ll be glad to hear, and constantly ask when you are coming back. I tell them soon. I just hope and pray that I am right.

Whatever happens, my dearest love, I shall be listening for your step, watching for your face at the window. Go with G-d.

Your Ruth

Kurt brought the letter up to his lips, closing his eyes and drawing a deep breath in an effort to conjure Ruth from the paper on which she had written. Tears of relief slipped down his cheeks. They were safe! They’d had to leave Germany, but they were safe in Vienna, a city where the Nazi writ did not run. He kissed her name at the bottom of the page and then read the letter through again. His wonderful Ruth had not only saved the children, but had found a way of getting his passport to him, so that he could try and reach them.

Then he thought of the Meyers. They had taken his family in when their home had burned down, they had done their best to help, as good neighbours should, and now, because Ruth had written to him at their address, they were in the hands of the Gestapo. Kurt’s euphoria at having received Ruth’s letter evaporated as he thought of the price that had been paid for him to be free. The letter had explained so much; why the shop and apartment were already being restored. She had given the deeds away already. Oberführer Loritz would never get his hands on the property now, which made Kurt’s own position even more perilous. The Oberführer would find someone else in possession of the property he had thought would be his, and his fury at being tricked would know no bounds. He would hunt Kurt like a fox, and when he found him he would slam him back into the hell of Dachau and throw away the key. Kurt would be worked until he dropped dead like poor Rudy Stein. In the meantime, with no property and no money, he had nothing else to bargain with should the need arise, and Kurt thought, it probably will!

Leo and Leah Meyer had lost their freedom, but, as a result, he, Kurt, was still free. He must escape; he must ensure that their unwilling sacrifice had not been for nothing. He had a fleeting vision of Leo sitting in the back of the Gestapo car, pale and terrified. Where had they taken him? To Dachau? And Leah? Where had they taken her? Where did they take women prisoners? Kurt didn’t want to imagine, but he knew the thought of the elderly couple who had lost everything, including each other, because they had been good neighbours, would haunt him forever.

He picked up the letter again and looked at the address so boldly inscribed at the top. At least he knew how to contact Ruth now, he thought, as he memorised both the address and the telephone number. He could telephone Edith’s house and ask for her, and he would hear her voice. Paul Schiller had a telephone in his shop, perhaps he could ring from there. Kurt pictured Ruth’s face when she heard his voice on the phone at last, and it was all he could do to stop himself from creeping back into the shop to find the telephone tucked away under the counter and place the call… now, that very minute. He fought the temptation. In the morning, he would ask Paul if he might use it.

Kurt folded the letter carefully and put it into his pocket, then he stoked up the stove and made himself as comfortable as he could on the sofa and settled down for the night. Certainly warmer than last night, he thought. And despite the perils and fears of the day, he soon drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, not stirring until the winter sun had risen to cast its light on the grey streets beyond the window.

Paul Schiller arrived early to open the shop. He carried a small case and a paper bag with him, and these he handed to Kurt. “Breakfast,” he said, nodding at the paper bag, “and clothes in there,” he indicated the case. “They should fit you all right… my son Günter’s. He was about your size.” He turned away abruptly, saying as he left the room, “Get changed, and then stay in the back here. I’ll come back at midday. I must be in my shop all morning, or it will be noticed.”

Kurt vaguely remembered Günter, a boy of about his own age, studious and solitary, and interested in different things. They had never been close at school. Where was he now, Kurt wondered? Paul had said ‘was’. Was he dead then?

Kurt opened the suitcase and pulled out winter underclothes, a shirt, jacket and trousers. There was a pair of woollen socks and a sturdy pair of boots. He quickly removed the boiler suit and the clothes he’d been wearing for the last week and went into the lavatory. The water was cold, but Kurt didn’t care. Standing naked beside the little basin, he scrubbed himself from head to foot, the cold of the water making him gasp as he plunged his head to wash his hair. At last he felt clean and he towelled himself vigorously to restore his circulation. He dressed quickly in the clothes Paul had brought, enjoying the clean cloth against his skin, and then turned his attention to the paper bag. There was some bread and an apple. Kurt set the kettle to boil and made himself a cup of coffee to drink with his breakfast.

At midday Paul Schiller closed the shop and came through to the back room. He nodded approvingly at the sight of Kurt, sitting warmly dressed on the sofa.

“You look very respectable,” he said with a faint smile. “Not at all like a man on the run. Now,” he went on, waving away Kurt’s thanks, “I have to go out. I’ll go to the station and buy you a ticket for tonight’s train to Hamburg…”

“Hamburg!” exclaimed Kurt, “I don’t want to go to Hamburg…”

“No one said you had to,” Paul said calmly, “but if there is someone keeping an eye out for you, they may not see you get on the Hamburg train. You do have to leave this town as soon as you can. Anyone might recognise you and report you to the Gestapo. And you can be sure they will be watching the trains to Vienna.”

“Why…?” began Kurt.

“My dear boy! Don’t forget, they’ve read your wife’s letter. They know where she is. You have her address now, but so does the Gestapo. They will be watching for you to board the Vienna train.”

Kurt hadn’t thought about the Gestapo reading the letter, only about them finding the passport. He felt a chill run through him; now they knew where Ruth and the children were.

Kurt asked Paul if he might use the telephone in the shop to phone Ruth, but the little jeweller shook his head, horrified.

“Definitely not!” he said. “Who knows who is listening in at the exchange? The call could well be reported and immediately traced back here. You must wait until you can get to a public telephone, and then keep your call extremely short.”

Kurt thought guiltily of how close he had come to using the telephone last night. Even though he knew Paul was right, Kurt longed to ring Edith’s number, to hear Ruth’s voice just once, to tell her that he was on his way.

Kurt dozed by the stove as the afternoon dragged by, but at last the early evening darkness fell, Paul Schiller closed the shop for the day and came through to the back room.

“There’s a lot of activity out in the streets,” he told Kurt as he made them more coffee. “Perhaps it would be better if you waited here for another few days.”

“No!” Kurt was adamant. “Every moment I’m here in your shop puts you in greater danger. Enough people have suffered because of me and my family. I’ll go tonight. I’ll take the train to Hamburg as you suggest, and then somewhere along the way, I’ll get off and head for the Austrian border.”

“Are you sure that is the best thing for you to do?” Paul asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Going to find them in Austria. Is that really the best thing to do?”

Kurt stared at him. “What else should I do?” he demanded. “I’ve got to get to my family. They need me.”

“Kurt, I understand that’s what you want to do,” Paul said, “but just think for a moment or two, is it what you ought to do?”

“Why ever not?”

“Well,” Paul said slowly, “I’ve been thinking about this all day, and it seems to me that the most help you can be to your family is to get right out of the country…”

“But that’s what I’m planning to do,” Kurt broke in. “Get out of the country, into Austria.”

Paul waved his hand in acknowledgement. “I know, I know, but you have to look at the overall situation. Have you considered that if Hitler has his way, Austria very soon won’t be ‘out of the country’?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” said Paul patiently, “that Hitler is set on annexing Austria. He has the power to do it and he will. Sometime in the next couple of months, maybe much sooner, Austria will become a province of Germany. The Nazis will rule and German laws will prevail. If you’re in Austria with your family, you’ll be just as badly off as you were before. You’ll have jumped out of the frying pan into the fire… and it will be some fire, believe me.”

“Then I should be with Ruth and the children,” returned Kurt. “If what you say is going to happen does happen, then I should be there, with them.”

“Where you will be arrested again, and of no use to them at all.”

“But I can’t just save myself and leave them there!” Kurt was almost shouting now. “I can’t just walk away! I have to be there to help them, to be with them.”

“I think,” began Paul and held up his hand to cut off Kurt’s interruption, “I think that you could do far more for them if you were safely in England, or Holland or France. In those countries you could arrange to get them out of Austria.”

“How?” Kurt snapped. “How could I do that?”

“I’ve heard there are Jewish societies and groups in London and other places who are helping Jews to escape from the Nazis. Sending money, arranging sponsors, finding jobs. Remember, you were going to be allowed to leave once the Nazi colonel had his hands on your property. Jews are being allowed to leave, at a price. You have nothing to offer here anymore, so, now you should go to England and ask for help.”

“Why would the English help me?”

“Why wouldn’t they? There are English Jews who are doing their best to bring their fellow Jews out of Germany, and I think I am right when I say that soon it will be out of Austria too.” Paul reached over and placed a hand on Kurt’s arm. “If you go to Austria now, you will be trapped, too. You can do more for your family as a free man… in a free country.”

Kurt stared blankly at the stove, his mind in turmoil. How could he possibly save himself and leave the rest of them to their fate?

“Kurt, it is your decision. Yours and yours alone.” Paul spoke gently: “Whatever you decide, I will do all I can to help you. All I am asking you to do is to consider your options, and to remember that if the Gestapo are looking for you anywhere, it will be trying to cross into Austria. They, too, know that’s where you want to go.” Paul sighed. “They call us Jews subhuman, but they recognise the very humanity in us that makes us love our families above all else and they use that knowledge to their advantage and our destruction. Threaten a man’s son, and you have the man.”

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.”