'That shouldn't be a problem. But what…'
'Don't ask. If it ever comes back to you, just say I asked for the loan of the vehicles.'
'I feel I should be doing more.'
'You're doing enough already. I sometimes think you're providing the Jews of Berlin with half their income.' After arranging to pick up the two vehicles on the following evening Russell drove north into Friedrichshain. The streets around Busching Platz looked even more run-down than he remembered, and Busching-Strasse was no exception. He drove slowly past the address Freya Isendahl had given him, looking out for any sign that the block was being watched, but the only humans in sight were two young children playing Heaven and Earth on the opposite pavement. He parked the car fifty metres further down, hoping that the mere presence of motorised transport would not be enough to provoke curiosity.
The Isendahls, he discovered, shared a fourth floor flat with another couple. They were comrades, according to Wilhelm, but Russell was still pleased they were out. Wilhelm and Freya's room was large, low-ceilinged, with distant views of Friedrichshain park. Russell glanced around, and was relieved by the lack of seditious leaflets on display. The room was certainly crowded, but there was nothing to suggest it was anything other than the first home of a young couple struggling to make ends meet.
Wilhelm offered him the single battered armchair, removing the copy of Rilke's Duino Elegies which was perched on one arm. Freya put a saucepan of water on the electric ring to make tea.
'Has my article been printed?' Wilhelm asked, taking one of the two up-right chairs. Even in blue overalls he managed to look vaguely aristocratic.
Russell admitted that it hadn't, that he was still looking for a safe way to get it out of Germany. He asked about the situation on the Siemens shopfloor, which kept Wilhelm talking until the tea was made.
'I need your help with something else,' Russell said once Freya was seated. He told them the story of his search for Miriam Rosenfeld, from her original disappearance to her probable imprisonment in the house on Eisenacher Strasse. They both listened intently, Wilhelm's face growing grimmer as Freya's eyes brimmed with unshed tears.
Russell explained his plan for getting the girls out, realizing as he did so that this was one of Sarah Grostein's life and death moments, when you opened yourself up to the possibility of betrayal. 'It's very simple,' he said in summary. 'On the day of the exercise – that's next Wednesday, the 30th – we turn up disguised as an ARP patrol, declare that the building has been hit by a bomb, and order everyone out. Even the SS have to obey ARP instructions, so we shouldn't have any trouble. We just separate the men from the girls, say we'll be back for the men, and drive away with the girls.'
'What do you want us to do?' Wilhelm asked.
'I need at least three more people to make it realistic. Can you drive?'
'Of course.'
'Then I'd like you to drive the ambulance.'
'Where are you going to get one of those?'
'I've been promised a vehicle, which I'll pick up tomorrow.'
'Do they use ordinary vans as ambulances? I've never seen…'
'They do. I was attached to a squad during the last rehearsal. They just paint the usual cross on them. And I'll be getting you some paint. Do you have anywhere we can keep the van? Out of sight, I mean.'
'I can find somewhere.'
'Good. And if you can get hold of any stretchers, that would be a bonus. The more details we get right the more convincing we'll be.'
'What will I do?' Freya asked.
Russell hesitated, expecting Wilhelm to oppose her participation, but he looked every bit as interested in her prospective role as she did.
'You could be a second nurse,' he suggested, hoping that Effi could get hold of two uniforms. It would be good to have two women, if only to inspire trust in the rescued girls. But another two men were needed, if only to intimidate the uncooperative.
'I can get them,' Wilhelm said. 'I know half a dozen who'd be more than willing to join us.'
'Jews?'
'Yes.'
'Then choose the ones who look least Jewish,' Russell said bluntly. 'We may have to order the SS around,' he added in explanation, 'and we can't afford the slightest doubt that we're who we say we are.'
'Understood,' Wilhelm said, ignoring the outraged expression on his non-Jewish wife's face. He asked Russell how much he knew about ARP procedures, seemed relieved by the answer, and agreed to bring two volunteers to a meeting in Friedrichshain park the following evening.
Russell drove back across the city feeling more confident than he'd expected – Wilhelm Isendahl was an impressive young man. He felt a little guilty at luring Freya into danger – this was hardly what her parents had had in mind when they asked him to make contact with their daughter. But she was no longer a child, and they were a long way away. He felt a surge of wholly unreasonable anger towards them, safe in their Brooklyn brownstone on the other side of an ocean.
He arrived home to find Effi taping black paper across the windows ahead of Monday's trial black-out. 'It seemed like a bad week to get arrested,' she explained. The next few days were busy. Doing his job, and keeping abreast of all the rumours circulating Berlin's corridors of power and influence, left precious few hours for organizing what seemed, in his less optimistic moments, like a particularly bizarre method of committing suicide.
On Monday afternoon he drove up to Hunder's garage in Wedding, bought a full tank of petrol for the Hanomag and hired a parking space for Thomas's lorry. Hunder raised one oil-streaked eyebrow at the latter request, but didn't ask any questions. Russell found himself wondering whether Hunder was a secret comrade like his cousin Zembski, and hoping, if he was, that it wouldn't prove relevant.
He drove back across the city to Neukolln, beating the rush hour but leaving himself an hour to wait before the Schade Printing Works emptied out. Thomas showed him the vehicles and handed over the keys, refraining from expressing the anxieties all too obvious in his eyes. Russell drove the lorry north to Hunder's, slowly getting used to its size and controls. After leaving it in the designated spot he walked to Lehrter Station for the convoluted train journey back. It would have been easier to get Wilhelm to collect the van, but Russell didn't want anyone else knowing of Thomas's part in the operation.
It was almost seven by the time he got back to the printing works, but it only took him fifteen minutes to reach the large hospital on Palisaden-Strasse in the van. He parked across from the emergency department entrance and drew a rough copy of the ambulance cross in his notebook. It was one of those symbols that everyone recognized, Effi had said, but that everyone found hard to replicate from memory.
The Friedrichshain park was only a few minutes away. He left the van close to the gates and walked up to the agreed rendezvous point. Wilhelm was waiting with two young men, whom he introduced as Max and Erich. Neither looked particularly Jewish, and both had an undoubted physical presence. The four of them sat on a bench discussing meeting times, clothes and – something that Russell realized with a shock he had barely considered – what they would do with the rescued women. 'We can find Jewish families who will take them in for a few days,' Wilhelm announced. 'And after that we can see about getting them back to wherever they came from.'
When they had finished and the new recruits had headed off towards a different gate, Russell handed Wilhelm the key of the van. 'There are cans of red and white paint in the back,' he said, handing over the sketch he had drawn. Wilhelm looked amused, but placed it in his pocket. Russell watched him drive off in the direction of the Central Stockyards, where an unnamed relation had promised him use of a garage.
It was getting dark by the time he reached the West End, and the blacked-out Ku'damm looked like a vast railway tunnel. This time he found Effi stitching together pieces of cloth. 'I could only get one uniform,' she said. 'I couldn't think of a good reason for needing two' she added in explanation.
'What reason did you give for the one?'
'That my boyfriend likes playing doctors and nurses.' Russell's first visit on Tuesday was to the American Embassy. The official letter recommending departure from Germany seemed an ideal excuse in the event that one should prove necessary, and he felt it wise to explain his lack of progress in contacting the men on Washington's list. This was no time to lose his American passport.
A harassed-looking Michael Brown listened to his excuses – that reporting the international crisis was both dictating his whereabouts and taking up all of his time – and blithely told him not to worry. 'Probably better to get this present business out of the way,' he said, presumably alluding to Poland. 'Wait for things to settle down again.'
Russell wholeheartedly agreed.
Dropping in at the Adlon, he found what remained of the foreign press corps twiddling its collective thumbs. The 'present business' showed no signs of resolution, but none of escalation either. The diplomatic channels between England, France, Poland and Germany were doubtless buzzing with activity, but none of the relevant governments were giving anything away. Rumour had it that the Germans had insisted on a Polish plenipotentiary coming to Berlin, and that England and France had pressed the Poles to send one. The Poles, mindful that a Czech President answering a similar summons had almost been bullied into a heart attack, were not racing to comply.
All of which was thoroughly irritating for the journalists. 'No-shows,' as one of the Americans pithily exclaimed, were 'no-news'.
Russell hung around until mid-afternoon, then went to meet Wilhelm Isendahl in the Alexanderplatz Station buffet. The young man was already there, gazing round at his fellow customers with a superior smile. As a closet Jew in a judenfrei establishment he could be forgiven, Russell thought.
They brought each other up to date with their respective preparations. Everything was going smoothly, which seemed far too good to be true. Wilhelm went off with Effi's paper-wrapped needlework clasped under one arm and Russell sat with a second cup of coffee, running another mental dress rehearsal in search of potential flaws. He found none, and wondered why that didn't seem more reassuring.
Driving south to Hallesches Tor he ate an early supper at his usual bar, listening to the U-bahn trains clattering their way in and out of the station above. At around eight he drew up in the Neuenburger Strasse courtyard and cut the engine. The sound of several women, all seemingly talking and laughing at once, filled the silence. Frau Heidegger's weekly skat night with her fellow-portierfrauen was well underway.
Her doors were open as usual. He walked through, causing all four women to look up. Frau Heidegger's smile of welcome was not echoed by her skat partners, who offered expressions ranging from irritation to outright hostility. He had, he guessed, committed two major sins – he had interrupted their game and been born English.
'Don't get up,' he reassured a struggling Frau Heidegger. 'I just wanted to leave a message for Beiersdorfer – I won't be here on Wednesday.'
'I'll tell him, Herr Russell.'
'Please, go on with your game,' Russell told the assembled company with a wide smile. He watched for a moment, waited until they were concentrating on their cards, and slowly backed away. As he passed through Frau Heidegger's open front door he slipped the ring of keys off its hook.