She unfortunately did not.
The fair-haired English major who interviewed her was either tired, bored or badly hung over — perhaps all three. He did, however, speak perfect German. He gave the Spruchkammer certificate a cursory glance, took down her name and personal details, and then asked for a list of her film and stage credits. Having completed this, he reached for what looked like a prescribed set of questions. ‘Were you ever a member of the National Socialist Party?’ he began, finally making eye contact. ‘No.’
‘Were you a member of the Reichskulturkammer?’
‘Yes, everyone was.’
‘Not everyone. Some of your colleagues went into exile. Others stopped working.’
There was no satisfactory answer to that, or none that would sound so after all that had happened in the last twelve years.
He laid an accusatory finger on her list of credits. ‘And these,’ he went on in the same self-righteous tone, ‘were all Nazi productions.’
He couldn’t be that naive, she thought. ‘They were produced by different companies, all of them licensed by Promi.’
‘The Nazi Propaganda Ministry.’
‘Yes.’
‘So they were Nazi productions. And to all intents and purposes, Nazi propaganda?’
‘Some were pro-Nazi, some had nothing to do with politics.’
‘And how many were anti-Nazi? Or spoke out against the persecution of the Jews?’
‘None.’ She felt like asking him how many pre-war British or American films had taken their governments to task, but decided against it.
He looked at the list again, and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing after 1941,’ he noticed.
‘My… my boyfriend is an English journalist. He got in trouble with the Gestapo — it was just before the Americans came into the war — anyway, he had to flee the country. I was going to leave with him, but in the end I didn’t. He escaped to Sweden, and I stayed in Berlin, in hiding, for the rest of the war.’
The major looked vaguely interested for the first time. ‘His name?’
‘John Russell. We were living in London until three days ago.’
He wrote something down. ‘So you didn’t work again after 1941.’
He wasn’t so much naive as stupid, she thought. ‘Of course not,’ she said with as little asperity as she could muster.
‘So how did you support yourself?’
‘I still had some money hidden away. I had help from my sister. And I was part of a resistance network.’
‘So many people were,’ he said wryly.
‘Have I done something to make you dislike me?’ Effi asked him.
He ignored the question, but she detected a slight colouring in his cheeks. ‘Do you have any proof of your involvement in resistance activities?’ he asked.
‘Not with me, no. I worked with Erik Aslund, the Swedish diplomat, and I imagine you could reach him through your embassy in Stockholm. Some of the Jews I helped to escape may have returned to Berlin, but I assume most of them will never want to see the place again. Do you want names?’
‘That won’t be necessary. Not yet, at least.’ He looked up at her, and the first hint of uncertainty crossed his face, taking several years off his age. It was only a moment; the mask of boredom soon slipped back into place. ‘You will be contacted when our investigation is complete,’ he told her, ‘or if we need to ask you further questions.’
She nodded, rose, and walked out through the waiting room, feeling more dejected than angry. After all they had been through…
She stopped at the head of the stairs and admonished herself. After all they had been through, things should be difficult.
Walking down, she heard more laughter and conversation, and what sounded like the clatter of crockery. Advancing down a likely-looking corridor she found herself outside a small cafeteria. The menu was limited to hot soup and drinks, but there was no shortage of customers, and several tables were hosting intense discussions, each ring of heads crowned by a halo of expensive cigarette smoke. She didn’t recognise any of the faces.
Effi used her new ration card to procure a cup of tea, and took an empty seat in the corner. Most people there were old enough to recognise her, but the woman who actually approached her was one of the youngest, slightly-built, with dark hair, prominent eyebrows and a very sweet smile.
‘You’re Effi Koenen, aren’t you?’ she asked in almost a whisper, as if she doubted whether Effi wanted her identity known.
‘I am.’
‘I remember your picture from the newspapers, when the police said you’d been kidnapped. And later you helped a friend of mine — another Jew. My name is Ellen, by the way. Ellen Grynszpan. My friend loved movies, and she recognised you, but she never told anyone who you really were, not until after the war, when she came back from Sweden. Inge Lewinsky — do you remember her?’
The name was unfamiliar. ‘No, I’m sorry. There were a lot of people. But please, join me.’
Ellen took a seat. ‘I just wanted to thank you. For my friend. And all the others, of course.’
Effi shook her head. ‘I didn’t have much to lose,’ she said. ‘How about you? How did you survive?’
‘Oh, I had an easy time of it. A Christian friend took me in and, well, I could never go out, but apart from that… it was like being in a really comfortable prison. I’m a painter, and I could paint, so I was happy most of the time.’
‘And now?’
‘I’m still painting, but I was persuaded to organise the exhibition here.’
‘I didn’t know there was one.’
‘Oh, it’s in the basement. It’s the Berlin Jewish community’s collection of paintings.’
‘Paintings by Jewish artists?’
‘Only a few of them are actually painted by Jews. Most of the richer patrons were more interested in a sound investment than racial provenance.’
Effi laughed. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Would you like to come down and have a look?’
Effi looked her watch. It might make her late, but Russell was used to that. ‘I’d love to.’
The basement gallery was empty of people, but the paintings were welllit, the room surprisingly warm. There seemed no coherent theme to the collection, and only the sign on the door offered any connection between the paintings on display and a particular community. There were landscapes, still-lifes, portraits of people and cats. The one exhibit which brought Jews to mind was a futuristic painting of a famous Berlin department store, and only because prominent Jews had owned it. If someone had told Effi that all the paintings were German, she would have taken their word for it.
And that, she supposed, was the point.
‘They’re not that good, are they?’ Ellen said.
‘They’re not bad. I suppose the fact that they’re here is what matters.’
‘Exactly.’
They both gazed at a Cubist rendition of the Memorial Church. ‘Have any of the synagogues re-opened?’ Effi asked.
‘Oh, at least two. There’s one out in Weissensee and one in Charlottenburg. And someone told me they’re using part of the one on Rykestrasse to house Jewish refugees from Poland. Why do you ask?’
‘I don’t know. Like buds in the spring, I suppose. Signs of life returning — something like that. But I am looking for two Jews, and if the synagogues are housing refugees I shall need to visit them.’
‘Who are the people you’re looking for?’
‘Their names are Otto Pappenheim and Miriam Rosenfeld.’
Ellen searched her memory, but came up empty. ‘Sorry, no. But I can ask around. If I hear anything I’ll leave you a message on the board outside the canteen.’
They walked back up to the lobby, and stood in silence for several moments, looking out through the open doorway at the mountain of rubble beyond. ‘Do you think many of the survivors will want to stay here?’ Effi asked. ‘The Jewish survivors, I mean.’
‘I don’t know. Some will, but most would rather go to America. Or Palestine, if the British weren’t making it so difficult.’
‘And you?’
‘I haven’t decided yet.’