The Furies

ESCAPE

I wasn't aware of having slept but must have done so. Sometime in the dead of night I became aware that the train was slowing. I turned in my bunk and listened, suddenly alert. A faint blue light in the ceiling now seemed bright to my dark-adapted eyes, and I saw every detail in the room. The Gestapo, I presumed, were in the corridor outside the door. I struggled up to a sitting position. A leg was still asleep, and I waggled a foot to get the circulation back. Yes, the train was definitely coming to a halt. Just a stop to replenish water? Or something more sinister? There was an indistinct exchange of voices, and the sound of footsteps hurrying along the corridor. Below the floor of my compartment, steam was escaping with a hiss.

There was a final judder and the serial clack-clack of buffers, and the train stopped. I stood up in my underwear, pulled on trousers, and buttoned my shirt. The door swung open and I was temporarily dazzled as someone switched on the main light. Herr Gestapo, the same idiot who had quoted the Nuremberg race laws at me some hours earlier; he was still carrying his Walther. "Out, now!"

"Where are we?"

"None of your damned business."

"Yes, definitely disemboweled," I said, covering my fear. "Are we still in Denmark?"

"Shut your mouth." He waved his gun vaguely. I could have taken it from the fat slob and stuck it down his throat, but what then?

In the corridor, sleepy-eyed scientists were being ushered toward the dining car. Black-uniformed soldiers were milling around, some still hastily buttoning up their tunics. Edith, her hair rumpled, caught my eye and gave me a puzzled, sympathetic look. The dining car was unlit apart from, bizarrely, candles on the tables, their flames threatened by extinction from the cold air drifting in from the open carriage door. SS men were disappearing through it into the dark beyond. The Gestapo man half pushed me onto a chair. I again resisted the temptation to snatch his gun and ram it down his throat.

Edith pushed her way toward me. "What's going on?"

"Don't speak to the prisoner." The Gestapo man was faking an angry tone.

"It's bloody freezing," Klein said to nobody.

"I saw trucks outside. I think we're at a level crossing." Edith said.

"I said don't speak to the prisoner."

She ignored Herr Gestapo. "I'm sorry you're in this fix, Max. And I'm sorry about Daniela."

"Sorry, nothing," Klein said, looking at me contemptuously. "He was screwing a Jewess. By the way, where is she?"

Edith shook her head, mystified. "Daniela, Jewish? That's crazy."

Hess climbed into the dining car, followed by Oberlin. There was a muttered conversation with an SS officer, and occasional glances in my direction. Then Oberlin approached our table, long-barreled gun in hand. "This is where we get off."

"And Cinderella'a carriage turns into a pumpkin." Trying for a lightness I didn't feel.

"See if you're joking tomorrow."

"I think this is good-bye, Edith."

"Never mind that," Oberlin snapped. He grabbed me by the forearm and manhandled me forward. Outside, there was a light touch of frost. A half-moon glowed down on a forested landscape, cut by a single narrow road. A long convoy of lorries was parked, and at first I thought I was destined for one of them. Then I saw wooden crates being unloaded. Of course: Goering's loot, half the art treasures of Europe taken from Karinhall and loaded, in the dead of night and safe from the Lancasters, into his train. No doubt heading for some mine shaft in Bavaria. Oberlin led the way past the lorries, his breath steaming lightly in the cold. Four soldiers were struggling to unload what looked like a tea chest, watched by an officer with a clipboard and a pencil. It seemed remarkably heavy and they were cursing profusely. I could hear the Gestapo man wheezing behind me, sense the gun pointing at my back. About twenty meters to the rear I could also hear Klein, Edith, and Hess in muted conversation.

At the end of the convoy, five cars were waiting, black Mercs, their lights dimmed by masking tape, although a few moths were fluttering, red, around the taillights.

Herr Gestapo pushed me toward the cars. I glimpsed Daniela in the back of one, squeezed between another two Gestapo types. Even in the half dark she looked pale. He pushed me toward the front car and bundled me into the backseat. I found myself squeezed between Oberlin and Herr Gestapo. Oberlin rested his gun on his lap. He said, "Any funny stuff and I'll blow your head off, simple as that."

Hess, in the passenger seat, turned to me, said nothing. Still that triumphant grin.

Oberlin said, "Get on with it." The driver, a thin-faced boy, turned on the ignition, and the car's engine gave a well-maintained purr. The convoy set off along the quiet, forested road, away from Goering's train, away from the art treasures of Europe, away from the Furies.

In a bleak dawn light, we passed over a broad river. A couple of early-morning anglers looked up as we crossed the metal bridge. A few kilometers on, we passed some horse-drawn field guns, and shortly after that the road forked. The front two cars took to the left. There was a farewell hoot from the last three cars, which took to the right, taking the scientists, I guessed, back to the convent. I wondered if I would ever see them again, my daily colleagues of the past two years.

Oberlin said, "Not long now." It was his first conversation in an hour.

I said, "What? The end of the war?"

"Funny man right to the end." The Gestapo man looked at me contemptuously with bloodshot eyes. Eyes swirling with exhaustion. He was still holding his pistol, but was resting it on his thigh; I guessed its weight was tiring. A little item of information to store away.

Now the countryside had opened up, and we were driving past barns, fields of cattle, the occasional smallholding. Daniela's car was keeping pace, a hundred meters behind. I saw a train in the distance, wondered if it was Goering's. "Where are you taking us?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Oberlin said. The driver was overtaking a line of mud-streaked trucks. Boys in uniform stared at us morosely from the rears. They were pale-faced, battle-weary. I knew the look. Heading away from the Western Front, toward Berlin. The Russians were less than a hundred kilometers from the Tiergarten.

"Berlin," Hess volunteered. "Me to report a successful outcome to Goering, a meeting that I am looking forward to with immense pleasure. They haven't said so, but I anticipate a meeting with the Führer himself."

"Dear Kurt, full of pride, collecting the glory earned by others. Enjoy it before the Russians come."

"But you and your Jewish whore will have to face a little questioning from the Gestapo."

"Or maybe the Americans will get here first. What do you think they'll do, Kurt? Hang you or shoot you?"

"Neither, since our work will turn the tide for us. They tell me the first floor of the Hausgefaengnis is — how can I put it? — unfriendly."

Oberlin pulled out a cigarette, opened a matchbox, struck the match, and lit the cigarette, all with his right hand. The gun stayed firmly in his left, pointing.

The Gestapo man was staring morosely out of the window. Getting careless? I looked casually at Oberlin. The security officer returned the look, half smiling, cigarette at the corner of his mouth; reading my mind. Gun resting on thigh, barrel pointing at my stomach, forefinger curled around trigger.

Hess turned to me again, grinning. "Not long now."

GESTAPO

The countryside was evolving into an unpleasant mix of dirty little towns and black slag heaps interspersed with collieries. The wheels were turning, I noted: Speer was still doing his job. There was a light orange haze in the sky and the air had a chemical smell about it, competing with the smoke from Oberlin's third cigarette. The road ran parallel to a railway track, and for a while we kept pace with a train pulling coal-laden wagons.

Something black in the sky, a crow circling. I saw it first: I had the battlefield antennae. It could have been one of ours, except that there was something business-like about the way it was curving in.

"Christ!" Hess yelled suddenly. The driver saw it and slammed on the brakes. Little puffs of dust were approaching at a terrific speed along the road, and now I could see the flashes of light from the Typhoon's machine guns.

Oberlin jumped out one door, the Gestapo man the other, leaving me in the back. I grabbed at Oberlin's gun as he exited and wrenched it out of his hand. He paid no attention and ran for the side of the road. I jumped out after him. I glimpsed the pilot, a boy, apparently looking straight at me. There was a series of loud metallic bangs and a brief, angry rasp from overhead as the aircraft, black-and-white stripes under its wings, seemed to skim the roof of the car.

The fat Gestapo man was lying facedown on the road, his hand still clutching the gun. The driver was at the wheel, his head dangling back over the seat. Blood was streaming from the back of his opened skull. So much blood! Windshield glass was everywhere, and steam was billowing up from the engine.

Behind us, Daniela's car had run into a grass shoulder and its doors were open. Someone had seized her by the hair and was trying to drag her toward a farmyard with a clutter of decrepit buildings. The others from the second car were already disappearing at speed into hay sheds and barns.

The Typhoon was going for a second pass, curving around, its engine pitch increasing. Daniela and her captor were still fighting, Daniela scratching desperately at the man's face and eyes. They were completely exposed but neither was giving in as the pilot aligned his aircraft with the road. They were about forty meters away from me and had seconds to live. I dropped on my stomach, aimed carefully at the moving, erratic target, and fired. The man dropped like a sack of potatoes. Daniela sprinted toward the car, hunched forward.

I got to my knees. Blood from a cut on my brow was blocking my vision. Oberlin and Hess were scurrying across the road about thirty meters ahead of me, trying for the rail track. They were racing the Typhoon but hadn't a hope. I dived behind the wrecked car just as the fighter's guns chattered again and clods of tar spurted up from the road. Then it had passed, buzzing angrily, and this time it was heading for the horizon.

Oberlin's head was shattered. Little white shards of bone and lumps of gray brain were everywhere. Hess had vanished.

Daniela reached the second Mercedes and I leaped in just as she raced the engine, and the rear wheels sent grass and mud arching through the air. Hess appeared ahead of us, prising the gun from the dead Gestapo man, fumbling it, picking it up again. His face was livid. Then the tires gripped and the car surged, lurching heavily as Daniela took it over Oberlin's body. Hess had time for one shot. He hunched forward, squinting along the barrel of the gun; a stab of orange flame; a little spiderweb hole in the windshield between us; and a metallic clang from behind. And then a horrified expression came over his face and he leaped aside. There was a huge explosion. I glanced behind. Hess was rolling on the ground. Men were rushing onto the road from the outbuildings, but the cameo was dwindling rapidly and it didn't look as if they knew what to do next. The train driver and fireman were running in and out of a cloud of steam billowing into the sky like a genie. Somewhere inside the cloud, presumably, was the train, the second Typhoon's prime target. It had used its cannon; the cars, being just a bonus, hadn't merited more than bullets.

"Papa?"

We were squeezed into the phone booth. The Berlin air was damp and smelled of brick dust and burned wood, and a hard-faced old crone was standing at the door, making her impatience felt. I could just make out the general's voice. "Daniela? Is that you?"

He hadn't heard from her in three years, Daniela had told me. So far as Papa was concerned, she had just disappeared. "War work."

A four-engined airplane, three of its propellers turning, was trundling low overhead. It was just visible in the dusk, sinking towards the Zentral-Flughafen, no doubt bringing in senior officers from the eastern battlefront for some desperate consultation. Daniela was almost having to shout. "Papa. I need help. Can we meet right away? At the Siegassaule? In half an hour? Can you be alone and in civilian clothes?"

"Of course! Daniela, what's the problem? I can hardly hear you." The big Fokke-Wulf was struggling: One of its engines was stuttering, a heart-stopping … voom … voom … voom … drowning out everything. The old crone was edging closer, pretending not to listen.

"I have to go … as soon as you can … please be there, Papa."

The Fokke-Wulf disappeared behind the rooftops . Voom … voom …

I held the door open for the old witch. She looked at us slyly. I didn't know what she'd heard and I was tempted to break her neck — I could have done it in a second, one arm wrapped round her throat from behind, the other wrenching her head. I smiled at her and thought maybe brutalization was for life after all.

It was now almost dark but Daniela gave a little shout when she saw the outline of the man on the bench. He stood up, throwing his newspaper aside. He was tall, well built, and wore a heavy black suit.

I stood back as Daniela ran toward him, let them embrace and laugh without intrusion. They spoke for a minute, and then Daniela turned and waved me forward.

He peered at me in the near dark. "Who's this?"

"Von Krafft, sir. Maximilian von Krafft."

"Max saved my life, Papa. It's a long story. Can we get out of here? We're in danger."

"We have an hour, maybe less, before the evening session. We could either get to the Zoo Bahnhof bunker or head for my apartment. The Zoo Bahnhof itself has been hit."

"Could we talk in the bunker?"

"With difficulty. Half of Berlin squeezes into it during a raid."

Daniela's father turned and led us quickly past the zoo and the blackened remains of the Hotel Eden. The Ku-damm was delineated by huge rubble heaps, dimly seen through unextinguished fires from the last raid. We turned onto the Potsdamer Strasse and found that water was gushing over the street.

We could hardly keep up. "Mein Gott, child, you look terrible. When did you last sleep?" Daniela was looking punch-drunk.

The long steady wail of an air raid siren, then the awful rise and fall of pitch. People around us started to scurry. "They're early."

We joined a flood of people heading for the Zoo Bahnhof bunker. Wardens were blowing whistles and waving people in in the dark. Daniela and I held hands to keep together.

The bunker, seven floors high, was icy and cavernous and yes, half of Berlin seemed to be squeezing into it. It was lit by blue lights, giving everything an unreal appearance, like a stage set. I had the impression that some families had set up home there, with mattresses, blankets, pillows laid out on the concrete floor. It hardly seemed possible in the congested space, but people were still pouring down the stairs and we drifted with the crowd away from the huge steel door into the bunker. Somebody behind me was carrying a suitcase, and its corner kept jabbing into my back. There was a clatter of hobnailed boots as flak helpers — a class of schoolboys — ran towards the concrete stairs.

The door, presumably, closed, and the crowd settled down, jostling for space. In a few minutes anti-aircraft fire from the roof started to rattle noisily in brief, repeated bursts. From outside there was the occasional heavy thud. Some family groups settled down and produced bread and sausages, as if they were on a picnic. The cacophony of thousands of voices echoing off the concrete roof was deafening. It reminded me of the chicken huts on our estate.

"How long does this go on for?" I asked the general. In the dim lightbulbs I saw that he was old, or at least seemed to be. Or maybe the harsh blue light just exaggerated the wrinkling on his face.

"Half an hour or so. Then we have thirty or forty clear minutes before the next wave. Let's try to find someplace where we can talk."

We eased our way around blankets and bodies. The din in the huge bunker was overwhelming: children crying, young people chattering and laughing, older ones gossiping, the bursts of fire overhead, the occasional ground-shaking thump.

We found a space with our backs to the concrete wall. An old woman was snoring, and a couple were hugging each other for warmth under a curtain, paying no attention to the outside world. Black bread and sausages were changing hands.

Daniela moved close to her father. "They know I'm a Mischling. They found out about Mama and you."

"Damn. Damn, damn." The general went silent for some moments. His mind seemed to be elsewhere. Then he looked sharply at me. "Where do you come into it?"

Daniela spoke before I had a chance to reply. "Max helped me escape. We're both finished if we're caught."

I said, "Your daughter and I were working on a project. One of the SS men on site told me Daniela's mother had been recognized in the street some time ago as Helena Rosenberg" — he drew a breath — "and they've been keeping it quiet until the project was completed because Daniela was essential to it."

"It must be some project, to let a Jew stay free."

"It could turn the Russian front," Daniela said. "The Ivans are only seventy kilometers away, my dear. On a quiet day you can hear Zhukov's guns. Nothing will turn that."

"Maybe even win the war, Papa. Certainly force a truce."

"What, chase the Russians over the Urals and push the Americans back into the sea? The war is lost, whatever our Bohemian corporal may think. The Russians will soon attack Berlin. They'll take it in a week and God help us all when they come."

Daniela looked at her father with bright, anxious eyes. "The Gestapo arrested us the moment the project was completed, Papa."

"You got away? How?"

"Max killed a man."

The general glanced at me with something like respect. "This is bad news. There are flying tribunals in the streets. They're mad dogs. They hang people on the spot, deserters, Jews, anyone who isn't right."

"And we'll have to warn Mama right away."

"Daniela, your call was probably overheard. The Bendlerstrasse these days … and it won't take them long to find out about my apartment. I fear for your mother. Once the raid is over, we'll grab a suitcase and cash, and disappear."

"Would you like some bread?"

The couple under the curtain, a dumpy little woman stretching a hunk of landbrot toward us. Her fingernails were as black as the bread. Daniela smiled and shook her head. They were uncomfortably close.

Daniela's father pulled out a packet of Regie, the harsh Austrian cigarettes. I was sure it was illegal to smoke in here. I declined — the air was foul enough — and he lit one for himself. Candles on the floor were already beginning to sputter from the lack of oxygen at floor level. Children were being lifted to shoulder height. The flak guns were hammering furiously overhead and a four-year-old was bawling nearby, but still he spoke quietly. "Under Gestapo rules your mother and I are now assumed to be enemies of the state, quite apart from Mama's non-Aryan status." Having just lit the cigarette, he stubbed it out on the concrete floor and started to pace up and down a few square feet, like a caged bear. "I can't go back to the War Office."

"I should never have called you."

"If you hadn't, they'd have taken Mama without warning."

She asked again. "What'll we do, Papa?" Another thud from outside, this one close. The whole bunker shook.

General Bauer faced me. "You're not in uniform. Not in a fighting unit?"

"I was exempted. They needed me for the project."

"Which you have just deserted."

"To save your daughter's life. Unfortunately we were too closely supervised to carry out any sabotage before we cleared off."

"Sabotage. I see. And this project, you say it could turn the tide on the Russian front? Can you be serious?"

"A month ago, yes. Today I'm not so sure. I suppose it's your duty to hand us over to the Gestapo."

"Yes, yes. And to defend the Bohemian corporal to the end, which will probably be in a couple of weeks."

"So we disappear?"

Overhead, the flak guns died as if a switch had been thrown. General Bauer was looking over my shoulder. I followed his glance, as did Daniela. I felt my face going pale. A police patrol, a dozen of them checking papers, moving systematically through the bunker. Probably looking for deserters, or Jews not wearing the star. At this late stage!

There was a gust of cold air. Some people started to drift toward the exit. Others were staying put. We drifted with the crowd. The patrol wasn't coping with the sudden mass movement. We kept a mass of people between ourselves and the policemen. At the foot of the concrete spiral staircase a burning smell was flooding in from above, along with the clang of fire engines and people shouting. In the crush it was now almost impossible to talk without being overheard. Daniela's father was speaking sotto voce. "Yes, young man, we disappear. But first we must warn your mother, Daniela. She must go into hiding this instant. We'll use my staff car and join her in Salzburg. We'll find some empty chalet and stay put until Patton rolls over."

Onto the pavement. More police. But not ordinary policemen: They had the dark green uniforms and police badges of the flying tribunals. It was impossible to turn back. A hand fell on Daniela's shoulder. "Kenkarte, bitte?"