The Runaway Family Read online

  Kurt had lied to them in Dachau and he knew it was a risk. He had no cousin in America, something the SS could discover easily enough if they bothered. He knew they had little chance of going to America, but they had to get out somewhere, and he had such a short time to make the arrangements. Thank God Ruth had found the deed box. She would have all the family documents safely with her, but, most important now, the deeds for the shop, which he must deliver to the Emigration Office in Munich. She had their passports, too, except for the twins’. Although Kurt didn’t expect the authorities to make it easy, they would probably allow him to put them on his, simply to get rid of them all.

  But where they were going to go, and where the money was going to come from, he didn’t know. He had his watch and Ruth had her wedding ring, and he thought he remembered there were a brooch and some earrings in the box, which might fetch something. Otherwise they had no money. Any cash there might have been would, he realised, have been spent long ago.

  Eventually, sleep overtook him, but it was a sleep beset with dreams; dreams of Dachau, dreams of the lorry that had taken him there, of the children calling his name, and the nightmare that finally startled him awake, Ruth on fire. She was running towards him, flames devouring her clothes, crackling through her hair, Ruth screaming, screaming to him for help, and he rooted to the spot unable to move as the fire engulfed her.

  Kurt sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding, cold sweat running down his back, staring into the darkness. He could still hear her screams echoing in his head, and see the agony on her face.

  There was no going back to sleep. Indeed Kurt didn’t dare, the nightmare had been so vivid, so real, he knew if he closed his eyes it would return. He switched on the light, and sitting with his eyes wide open waited for his racing heart to slow. He spent the rest of the night planning what he would do.

  As soon as it was light, before much of the street was awake, he crossed the road again, and, with a claw hammer borrowed from Leo, levered the planks from the door and went into his shop. It was cold, dark and dank. Rain had blown in through the gaps in the planking, and the smell of damp soot was strong and acrid.

  The shop had been gutted by the fire. There was nothing left but a smoke-blackened shell. The staircase was gone, and parts of the ceiling had collapsed, leaving the charred rafters exposed above.

  Kurt looked up at the rafters, and then went back across the road to the bakery.

  “Have you got a ladder I can borrow?” he asked Leo. “I need to try and get into the apartment, and the stairs have gone.”

  “I have,” Leo said, leading him out to the back, “but be very careful, the whole building must be very unsafe.”

  “I will,” promised Kurt, hefting the ladder over his shoulder.

  “And don’t be long,” warned Leo. “If you’re seen, someone will report you for looting.”

  “Hardly looting, it’s my own property!”

  “Since when did that make any difference to the Gestapo?” replied Leo.

  Kurt took the ladder over to the shop and set it up where the stairs should have been. Cautiously he climbed, not even sure if the beam supporting the ladder would take his weight. It appeared to do so and he scrambled up onto one of the more solid-looking rafters. The floor had burned away, but the old timbers of the house were thick and strong, and although they were scorched and blackened, most of them seemed to have survived the fire. Carefully Kurt edged his way along the landing till he reached the doorway of his bedroom. There was little left to see, all the furnishings and furniture were ash. He crossed the landing and looked into the girls’ room. Here it was the same, with only the remains of the old iron bedstead, a twisted misshapen mess, melted against the window. Water had been poured in to quench the fire, and with windows open to the rain the room was cold and dank. Reluctantly Kurt looked into all the rooms. The boys’ room had fared little better, and the comfortable kitchen living room, which had been the centre of their family life, was a blackened mess. Here, however, the damage had been caused more by smoke and water than by fire. Kurt edged his way into the room, fighting back tears as he saw what was left of their home. Then something caught his eye, stuffed into the corner of a chair. He reached out and pulled it clear.

  “Bella!” he cried aloud, and hugged the doll, Inge’s favourite toy, convulsively to his chest. “Bella!”

  Then, at last, he turned his attention to the old bread oven. Crossing the floor gingerly, he opened the heavy oven door and looked inside. There, kept safe from the smoke and the flames by the cast iron of the oven walls, lay the envelope into which he had put some of the money he’d taken from the bank. A wave of relief washed over him. He had what he’d come for. Now perhaps they had a chance. Hurriedly Kurt stuffed the envelope into one pocket of his jacket, and catching up Bella stuffed her into the other. Then he made his way back through the apartment, to the top of the ladder. As he passed the broken window that overlooked the street, he suddenly heard the tramp of marching feet. He didn’t have to look out of the window to know who was approaching. He was trapped in his own apartment, with his own money hidden in his coat, and the SS were coming down the street.

  Kurt thought of Leo’s warning about looting. He reached the ladder, but realised that if he went down now, he would be caught coming out of the shop. He had no proof that it was his, and even if he had, it would probably make no difference. As the tramping feet drew closer, he made a grab for the top of the ladder, and heaved, pulling it upwards, out of sight. The weight of it made him stagger backwards, and he sat down hard on a beam, but his foot pushed through the remains of the burnt-out ceiling, protruding into the shop. Frantically he struggled, trying to pull free so that he could finish pulling the ladder out of sight from below. Outside the sound of marching feet grew louder, and then, at a barked order, they stopped. As Kurt finally extricated his foot from the ceiling, and heaved the ladder upwards, he heard a raised voice from the street.

  “Someone has broken in here. Weissen! Müller! See what’s going on here!”

  There was the sound of feet, and a crack of timber as more of the planks were ripped away from the front door.

  “No one here, sir,” called a voice.

  “What about upstairs?”

  “There aren’t any stairs, sir. Place is burnt out.”

  “Any sign of looters?”

  “Nothing worth looting here, sir.”

  “Clearly someone’s broken in, Weissen. You’re to stay here. Guard the door until we can come back and investigate properly.”

  “Yes, sir.” Weissen sounded resigned to his duty. Outside another order was given and the tramping feet resumed, as the rest of the troop marched away.

  Kurt found he had been holding his breath. Now he let it out, and as silently as he could eased himself out from under the ladder. For a long moment he listened. Weissen was still in the shop, but when Kurt heard the scratch of a match and the smell of cigarette smoke, he knew that the soldier below wasn’t taking his guard duty very seriously. He didn’t think there was anyone there, and he wasn’t expecting anyone to challenge him from the street.

  But Kurt was still trapped, and they were coming back. He felt the panic rise within him, as he listened to the movements of the man below. He had to get out, but there was no escape that way.

  Get a grip on yourself, Kurt thought fiercely. Get a grip on yourself and think!

  He edged back along the landing until he reached his bedroom. Here the window overlooked the small yard below. Treading softly on the remaining rafters, Kurt crossed to the window and looked down. It was quite a drop, for the yard was lower than the level of the shop floor.

  It’s the only way out, he thought, and I have to try. He considered bringing the ladder along the landing, but realised straightaway that this was almost impossible. The ladder was heavy and unwieldy and would almost certainly make a noise that would alert the guard below. Reluctantly he dismissed the ladder and looked down again into the yard. The buildin
gs next door overlooked it as well, but there was nothing he could do about that. He would have to risk being seen, it was a lesser risk than staying where he was, waiting to be discovered… with the money in his pocket.

  It was impossible to open the window as the metal frame had been distorted by the heat, but that same heat had shattered the glass. A few shards were still embedded in the frame, but the gap was wide enough for Kurt to slide through if he were careful. With one final glance behind him, he reached through and grasped the top of the frame outside. Sitting on the sill, his legs still inside the room, he edged himself through the gap until he was crouching on the broad outer windowsill. Once he glanced below and shuddered. It seemed a long way down. Shutting his eyes for a moment he calmed himself, and then began to ease himself over the edge of the sill. Grasping the bottom of the window frame, he lowered himself until he was hanging, arms extended, down the side of the building. There was no going back, and no hanging on for much longer either. He gave a quick glance downward and then, steeling himself to let go, dropped the final twelve feet onto the paved yard. The drop jarred his ankles, but he flexed his knees to absorb some of the jolt as he landed and rolled over on the stones. His hands were bleeding from where they had caught on the embedded glass, but otherwise he had no real injury, and he was quickly on his feet again. He scrambled over the wall at the end of the yard into the alley beyond, and made his way along its narrow length towards the street. Before he emerged he blotted the blood from the cuts on his hands on the tail of his shirt, and, praying he wouldn’t meet the Gestapo, walked as slowly as he dared back towards the bakery, entering it as just another customer.

  Leo looked at him in horror and murmured, “You must go, now.” His eyes flicked to the door, and Kurt, following his look, saw the SS soldier standing outside his own burnt-out shop.

  “I’m sorry,” Kurt said, “if I have put you in danger.”

  Leo thrust a newly baked loaf into his hands and said, “Go and find your family, Kurt. Go now. We can’t do anything more for you here.” He turned away from the window, and Kurt, with the loaf in his hands, left the shop, walking away along Gerbergasse for the last time, without a backward glance.

  He didn’t reach Herbert’s apartment block until late in the afternoon. He had never been to his brother’s home before, and he was relieved to find it was in a respectable suburban area. It was clearly not a Jewish enclave, as Gerbergasse was. The shop windows, displaying their various goods, were unbroken; there was no red paint daubed on their doors. Indeed some had notices proclaiming “No Jews served here”. If Herbert lived and worked in such a place, then he must be completely accepted by his neighbours, and Ruth and the children would be safe.

  Suddenly Kurt ached to see them, to hold them in his arms once more. He went into the apartment building and peered at the names beside the column of bell pushes in the hallway.

  None of them was Friedman. He ran his eye over them again to be sure he hadn’t missed it. No Friedman. He went back into the street to check the number displayed on the building itself, wondering if he had walked into the wrong block. No, on the outside wall, clear for all to see was the number 15. Elbestrasse 15 Apartment 3c. That was definitely Herbert’s address. Kurt went back inside and looked at the number on the door of one of the ground-floor flats. 1a. The others were 1b and 1c. 3c must be on the third floor. He climbed the stairs and stopped outside the door of 3c. The name beside it was Schultz. Kurt rang the bell.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” he said to the old woman who opened the door a crack and peered out at him, “but I am looking for Herr Friedman.”

  The woman scowled. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  “But he did? You said ‘anymore’. I’m his brother.”

  “Another Jew,” remarked the woman with distaste. “Well he’s gone. I live here now!” She began to shut the door, but frantic for news of Ruth and the children, Kurt stuck his foot in the doorway.

  “I’m looking for my wife… my children,” he began.

  “Oh!” the woman gave an unpleasant smile. “The Jewish orphanage! They’ve gone too.”

  “But… gone where?”

  The woman shrugged. “How should I know?”

  “But where did Herbert take them?” As he spoke Kurt took a step back and the woman immediately slammed the door.

  “Nowhere,” she cackled from inside the flat. “He didn’t take them anywhere. The Gestapo took him! He’s been arrested.”

  6

  Where are we going, Mutti?” Laura asked as she trudged along the street behind her mother, still carrying the food basket in one hand and gripping Hansi tightly with the other. Ruth didn’t answer. She didn’t have an answer. All she knew was that they had to get away from the apartment building and out of sight before the Gestapo decided to come down after them.

  “Just follow me,” she said. “Inge, hold Peter’s hand.” Carrying the suitcase, she led the little procession along the street, turning off along the first side road that presented itself.

  Once they were off the main road they continued along the smaller streets towards the canal. On the far side of the bridge there was a bench overlooking the water. Here Ruth paused and setting the suitcase down took the basket from Laura. It was quite heavy, and Laura had been struggling with it, but in it was the precious flour bag with a small roll of banknotes concealed inside.

  “I’m tired, Mutti!” Inge this time, her voice a wail of despair. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see,” replied Ruth, but Inge’s despair echoed in her own heart. Where were they going? She had no idea.

  The chilly dampness that had been in the air over the last few days had again turned into a steady drizzle. The children were getting cold and wet, and she had nowhere to take them.

  There must be somewhere we can go, Ruth thought. We have to find some shelter, and soon.

  Then she thought of the synagogue she had found when she first arrived. At Herbert’s insistence she had kept well away from it, but now it seemed to her that it was their only hope. Surely the rabbi would help them. It wasn’t that far. That’s where they’d go.

  “Come on,” she said. “It’s not far. I’ll take the basket and the case. Laura, you and Inge look after the twins.”

  It wasn’t very far, but although Ruth knew the general direction, they took a couple of wrong turns and by the time they finally reached it, the children were all soaking wet and exhausted. Ruth opened the unlocked door and led them inside.

  “Wait here,” she said, “while I find the rabbi. Laura, do you understand? You are not to move from here.”

  Rabbi Rahmer was a small man with a greying beard and a balding head. When his wife, who was considerably larger, led Ruth into his study, he got to his feet to greet her, peering at her with sharp black eyes, over a pair of half-moon spectacles.

  “How can I help you, Gnädige Frau?” he asked courteously. He indicated that she should take a seat beside his desk, before returning to his own place behind it.

  Ruth introduced herself and explained how she had brought the children to Herbert’s home after they had been burnt out of their own.

  “Now he’s been arrested,” she went on, “and we’ve been turned out onto the street. I’ll have to try and find us somewhere to live, but we’ve nowhere to go while I look. Do you know anyone who would take us in, just for a few days?” She looked at the rabbi hopefully. “I can pay… a little… but I know a hotel won’t take us, and anyway it would be too expensive.”

  Rabbi Rahmer stroked his beard and looked thoughtful. “It’s not easy,” he said. “Life is difficult for us all. Haven’t you any other family you can go to?”

  “There is my mother,” Ruth said, “but it would take time to arrange. She is an old lady, and she lives miles away.”

  Rabbi Rahmer looked relieved. “But she would want to see her grandchildren safe, I’m sure,” he said. “I think you should try and go there. Surely that is where your husband wil
l look for you when he is set free.”

  “He’ll look for me here,” Ruth said. “He’ll come to Herbert’s apartment.”

  “But he won’t find you,” pointed out the rabbi. “Surely, then, he’ll go to your mother’s. He’ll guess that’s where you’d turn for help.”

  “Even if that is the best thing and I do take the children to her,” Ruth said wretchedly, “I can’t go today. I have to find out how to get there from here, which trains and when they run. We must have somewhere to stay for at least one night, possibly two. Is there nowhere you can suggest?” Her eyes held his, beseeching him to help her. “I’m desperate,” she said quietly. “They are standing, soaking wet, in your synagogue. I must get them somewhere warm and dry. Please, I’m begging you to help us.”

  “We’d better go and fetch them.” The rabbi sighed, and, getting to his feet, once again led Ruth out of his study, calling to his wife. “I’m just going across to the synagogue to see these children. We’ll have to get them dried off over here. Can you find some towels?”

  That night the family slept in the meeting room at the back of the synagogue. Frau Rahmer gave them bread and some thick broth in her kitchen and when they were warm, dry and fed, she found blankets and pillows and took them over to the meeting room. Using these, Ruth contrived a bed for them on the floor. When at last exhaustion had taken over and they were all asleep on the makeshift bed, Ruth sat on one of the chairs and went through their meagre belongings, considering their options.

  When she had taken the twins to the bathroom, Laura had managed to retrieve the money Ruth had hidden there; and there was the flour-bag money. With what Ruth had on her person and the last few Reichmarks in the deed box, they had enough for a while, but she knew she would have to eke it out very carefully. Ruth grimaced as she thought of the money Frau Schultz would find when she stripped the bed in the boys’ room. But then, she thought, perhaps Frau Schultz won’t find it. Perhaps as Jews had slept in it she’ll consign the whole bed and bedding to be burned. Somehow Ruth doubted it. No, Frau Schultz would find it and then begin scouring the apartment for any other hidden money. Tipping out drawers, upending Herbert’s bed, tearing the cushions from the sofa, and realising that there must have been money hidden in the basket of food she’d so casually allowed Ruth to carry with her. Frau Shultz’s imagined rage at being duped by a Jew gave Ruth a brief moment of triumph, but it was only momentary. She thought of how the woman had spied on them all, watching as they went about their lives, noting where they went and what they did, and then going to the Gestapo and informing on them. Did she really hate Jews that much, or had she simply seen it as a way to steal Herbert’s apartment from them? For a moment, Ruth felt an overpowering fury at the injustice of it all, but even as it flooded through her, she knew that she had to forget the malicious and vengeful Frau Schultz and find a way to protect her children from others, equally malicious and vengeful.