‘Can I see those?’ Russell asked.
The man reached for a ledger and hoisted it onto the table. It was a converted cash ledger, divided alphabetically with long lists of names underneath each letter.
There was three pages of ‘R’s. He started moving his finger down the column of names, conscious of the old man’s wheezy breathing. There was no Rosenfeld on the first page, none on the second, and he was almost at the bottom of the third when he saw it. He had only been looking at surnames, but somehow the Miriam caught his attention. Not Rosenfeld but Resch.
No sign of Torsten, but it had to be her. Torsten marrying another Miriam would surely be too much of a coincidence.
Miriam Resch had died on the 3rd of May, while the city was still under siege. An address was written beside the name.
Russell went back through the ‘R’s, looking for a Resch he might have missed. There was none. Torsten might have died somewhere else, or he might still be alive. The child in Berlin might not have been Miriam’s, or might be listed under the father’s name.
‘Where is Jahnstrasse?’ Russell asked the old man.
It was a kilometre to the east, just beyond the Konigsplatz.
The walk took him twenty minutes, first along the wreck-strewn Oder, then south through streets still choked with rubble and seemingly empty of life. Black flags hung from several balconies, but Russell had no idea why. He doubted whether anarchists lived there.
Miriam’s address was a three-storey building which almost alone in the street remained whole. The Pole who answered the door was dressed in the same militia uniform as the four young men he’d met earlier, and was just as easily intimidated by Russell’s aggressive Russian. When he understood that his inquisitor was looking for the former occupants, he led him down to the door of the neighbouring basement, and left him with a frightened-looking German woman. She, Russell saw, was wearing a white armband with the letter ‘N’ on it. ‘N’ for Niemiec — German — presumably. The Poles had watched and learned.
He asked about Miriam, but the name didn’t ring any bells. The German inhabitants of the house next door had been evicted to make room for two Polish families from Lublin. ‘Bauern,’ she murmured, peasants. She thought the Germans had moved out to Popelwitz. ‘That is one of the German areas,’ she told him, as if describing a ghetto.
‘But you don’t know which street?’
‘No, but Frau Hoschle will. She knew those people.’
‘And where can I find her?’
‘Ah, just across the street here.’ She shepherded him up to the pavement. ‘You see over there. But mind her steps — I almost fell the other day.’
‘What are the black flags for?’ he asked, catching sight of one further down.
‘Typhus,’ she said succinctly, and scuttled back down the steps.
He strode across the empty street and took care with his descent. Frau Hoschle looked worn out and hungry, but her eyes flickered at the mention of Miriam, and after a moment’s obvious hesitation, ushered him inside. The one habitable room contained an old rocking chair, several boxes of keepsakes and other possessions, and a ragged-looking mattress. A single candle was burning on an old-fashioned cake stand.
She lowered herself onto the rocking chair. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘What happened to Torsten Resch?’
‘He’s gone. They left several weeks ago. But why do you want to know — are you a relative?’
‘Not exactly,’ he said, standing up his suitcase and using it for a seat. ‘I knew a Miriam Rosenfeld in Berlin, before the war even started. We lost touch, and I knew…’
‘Rosenfeld,’ the woman interjected. ‘I always knew she was Jewish. Don’t get me wrong,’ she said to Russell. ‘I’ve got nothing against the Jews, and Miriam was a lovely girl. But she never admitted to being Jewish. Why would she, I suppose. Torsten must have known.’
‘He did.’
‘You knew him too?’
‘I met him once, here in Breslau. Before his call-up he worked at the Petersdorff department store.’
‘He went back there.’
‘When? Why did the Army release him?’
‘He lost an arm at Stalingrad. Early on, before they were surrounded. Which was lucky in a way. He was in hospital for a long time, and then they discharged him. He went home for a while, then came back to his old job. That’s when I met him — he took the room across the street.’
‘And what about Miriam?’
‘She arrived a few weeks later. He told people she was his cousin from Berlin, but eventually they dropped the pretence, at least with people they knew. And once it was clear she was pregnant… I was invited to the wedding. They got married at the Kreuzkirche, across the river. The 6th of June, 1944. That evening we heard that the English and Americans had landed in France.’
‘The child — was it a boy or a girl?’
‘A girl, which was nice. One of each.’
‘She brought the boy with her?’
‘Yes, and I don’t think it can have been Torsten’s. But it didn’t seem to matter — he always treated Leon like a son, and a well-loved one at that.’
He showed her the photograph he’d been carrying for over six years. ‘Just to be sure — is this her?’
‘Yes. Yes it is.’
‘How did she die?’
‘In the siege. She was queuing for water at one of the street taps. A shell killed them all. At least it was quick — she wouldn’t have known anything about it.’ The woman looked up at Russell, and must have noticed the tears forming in his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘we all loved Miriam. She was such a happy girl. They were such a happy couple.’
Russell found he was shaking his head. Of all the things he’d expected to find, the very last was Miriam’s happiness. He wished that Leon and Esther were here with him now, that they might find some consolation for what had befallen their daughter, both before and after her year of joy.
He asked if the children were both still alive.
‘They were ten days ago, when he came to say goodbye. But who knows. Hundreds are dying each day. For all I know they’re still waiting at Freiburg Station. That’s out in the western suburbs.’
‘That’s where they went?’
‘That’s where everyone goes who’s allowed to leave. Torsten was high on the list, on account of his work on the anti-Fascist committee.’
‘And he took the children with him?’
‘Of course.’
‘What’s the girl’s name?’ Russell asked, already knowing the answer.
‘Esther.’
‘And you have no idea who Leon’s father was? How old is he?’
She thought about that. ‘He’ll be six in April,’ she said eventually. ‘He was five just before his mother was killed. And no, if Torsten wasn’t the father, then I’ve no idea who was.’
Neither, Russell suspected, had Miriam. He thanked Frau Hoschle for her help and offered her a pack of cigarettes. The way she stared it might have been gold dust, but she made no move to take the gift. It was only when Russell insisted that she stowed it away in the pocket of her faded housecoat.
Outside the light was fading, and Russell felt disinclined to wander the streets after dark. He needed somewhere to stay, and hadn’t yet seen a surviving hotel. The main station was probably his best bet — there had been enough Russians in evidence to inhibit the Poles, or so he hoped.
Walking south he felt strangely buoyed by what he had heard — strangely because Miriam was actually dead. Perhaps he had always known that, but he had never imagined that she would find happiness. Once the bad news had been taken for granted, the good news came into its own.
He wondered if Miriam’s parents would feel that way. Would grandchildren named in their honour prove some consolation for the loss of their only child? They probably would. But first they had to survive the journey, and then they had to be found.