He could see the place stilclass="underline" the wrought-iron balcony, the Rhine valley beyond, the barges moving lazily in the wide water; the stone walls of the old town, the cool church; Klara’s skirt, waist to ankle, sunflower yellow.
And there was something else he could still see: a kilometre down-river, spanning the gulf between Germany and Switzerland — the glint of a steel bridge.
Forget about trying to escape through the main air or sea ports: they were watched and guarded as tightly as the Reich Chancellery. Forget about crossing the border to France, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Hungary, Yugoslavia, Italy — that was to scale the wall of one prison merely to drop into the exercise yard of another. Forget about mailing the documents out of the Reich: too many packages were routinely opened by the postal service for that to be safe. Forget about giving the material to any of the other correspondents in Berlin: they would only face the same obstacles and were, in any case, according to Charlie, as trustworthy as rattlesnakes.
The Swiss border offered the best hope; the bridge beckoned.
Now hide it. Hide it all.
He knelt on the threadbare carpet and spread out a single sheet of brown paper. He made a neat stack of the documents, squaring off the edges. From his wallet he took the photograph of the Weiss family. He stared at it for a moment, then added it to the pile. He wrapped the entire collection tightly in the paper, binding the clear sticky tape around and around it until the package felt as solid as a block of wood.
He was left with an oblong parcel, ten centimetres thick, unyielding to the touch, anonymous to the eye.
He let out a breath. That was better.
He added another layer, this time of gift paper. Golden letters spelled GOOD LUCK! and HAPPINESS!, the words curling like streamers amid balloons and champagne corks behind a smiling bride and groom.
BY autobahn from Berlin to Nuremberg: five hundred kilometres. By autobahn from Nuremberg to Stuttgart: one hundred and fifty kilometres. From Stuttgart the road then wound through the valleys and forests of Wurttemberg to Waldshut on the Rhine: a hundred and fifty kilometres again. Eight hundred kilometres in all. “What’s that in miles?”
“Five hundred. Do you think you can manage it?”
“Of course. Twelve hours, maybe less.” She was perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward, attentive. She wore two towels -one wrapped around her body, the other in a turban around her head.
“No need to rush it — you’ve got twenty-four. When you reckon you’ve put a safe distance between yourself and Berlin, telephone the Hotel Bellevue in Waldshut and reserve a room — it’s out of season, there should be no difficulty.”
“Hotel Bellevue. Waldshut.” She nodded slowly as she memorised it “And you?”
I’ll be following a couple of hours behind. I’ll aim to join you at the hotel around midnight.”
He could see she did not believe him. He hurried on: “If you’re willing to take the risk, I think you should carry the papers, and also this…” From his pocket he drew out the other stolen passport. Paul Hahn, SS-Sturmbannfuhrer, born Cologne, 16 August 1925. Three years younger than March, and looked it.
“She said: Why don’t you keep it?”
“If I’m arrested and searched, they’ll find it. Then they’ll know whose identity you’re using.”
“You’ve no intention of coming.”
“I’ve every intention of coming.”
“You think you’re finished.”
“Not true. But my chances of travelling eight hundred kilometres without being stopped are less than yours. You must see that. That’s why we go separately.”
She was shaking her head. He came and sat beside her, stroked her cheek, turned her face to his, her eyes to his. “Listen. You’re to wait for me — listen! — wait for me at the hotel until eight-thirty tomorrow morning. If I haven’t arrived, you drive across without me. Don’t wait any longer, because it won’t be safe.”
“Why eight-thirty?”
“You should aim to cross the border as close to nine as you can.” Her cheeks were wet. He kissed them. He kept on talking. She had to understand. “Nine is the hour when the beloved Father of the German People leaves the Reich Chancellery to travel to the Great Hall. It’s months since he’s been seen — their way of building excitement. You may be sure the guards will have a radio in the customs post, and be listening to it. If ever there’s a time when they’re more likely just to wave you through, that’s it.”
SHE stood and unwrapped the turban. In the weak light of the attic room, her hair gleamed white.
She let the second towel drop.
Pale skin, white hair, dark eyes. A ghost. He needed to know that she was real, that they were both alive. He stretched out a hand and touched her.
THEY lay entwined on the little wooden cot and she whispered their future to him. Their flight would land at New York’s Idlewild airport early tomorrow evening. They would go straight to the New York Times building. There was an editor there she knew. The first thing was to make a copy — a dozen copies — and then to get as much printed as possible, as soon as possible. The Times was ideal for that.
“What if they won’t print it?” This idea of people printing whatever they wanted was hard for him to grasp.
They’ll print it. God, if they won’t, I’ll stand on Fifth Avenue like one of those mad people who can’t get their novels published and hand out copies to passers-by. But don’t worry — they’ll print it, and we’ll change history.”
“But will anyone believe it?” That doubt had grown within him ever since the suitcase had been opened. “Isn’t it unbelievable?”
No, she said, with great certainty, because now they had facts, and facts changed everything. Without them, you had nothing, a void. But produce facts — provide names, dates, orders, numbers, times, locations, map references, schedules, photographs, diagrams, descriptions — and suddenly that void had geometry, was susceptible to measurement, had become a solid thing. Of course, this solid thing could be denied, or challenged, or simply ignored. But each of these reactions was, by definition, a reaction, a response to some thing which existed.
“Some people won’t believe it — they wouldn’t believe it no matter how much evidence we had. But there’s enough here, I think, to stop Kennedy in his tracks. No summit. No re-election. No detente. And five years from now, or fifty years, this society will fall apart. You can’t build on a mass grave. Human beings are better than that — they have to be better than that — I do believe it — don’t you?”
He did not reply.
HE was awake to see another dawn in the Berlin sky. A familiar grey face at the attic window, an old opponent.
“Your name is?”
“Magda Voss.”
“Born?”
“Twenty-fifth October 1939.”
“Where?”
“Berlin.”
“Your occupation?”
“I live at home with my parents, in Berlin.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Waldshut, on the Rhine. To meet my fiance.”
“Name?”
“Paul Hahn.”
“What is the purpose of your visit to Switzerland?”
“A friend’s wedding.”
“Where?”
“In Zurich.”
“What is this?”
“A wedding present. A photograph album. Or a Bible? Or a book? Or a chopping board?” She was testing the answers on him.
“Chopping board — very good. Exactly the sort of gift a girl like Magda would drive eight hundred kilometres to give.” March had been pacing the room. Now he stopped and pointed at the package in Charlie’s lap. “Open it, please, Fraulein.”
She thought for a moment. “What do I say to that?”