The Legacy (16 page)

‘Klaus said sadly, “No more than twelve; even so you'll be lying on top of each other. He won't take one more; I asked. You'll have to decide who stays behind. Thank God it's not my choice.”

‘Ruth stood up. “Leave that to us,” she said. “How can we ever thank you, Herr Himmelsbach? You've saved all our lives. Hester has a little boy, five months old. She must go. No,” she turned to the girl, forbidding protest. “No, your son has to live his life, and he must have his mother. How do we get to the boat? When do we leave?”

‘“My friend in customs has helped with that. He is a good man; he hates what's being done to our Jewish people. He has an official van that is under repair at this time, so it's off the roster, but it will be ready sooner than expected; he's going to see to that himself. It can collect you and bring you to the pick-up point on the coast. The trawler will anchor close in to shore and they'll send a boat for you. Bring all your goods, but nothing too bulky. Cut pictures out of their frames—roll them, as you did,” he said to Ruth. “Put other valuables in your luggage—remember that space is vital. Wear thick clothes; it'll be very cold on the journey, and don't bring food; he'll share some rations with you.” He looked at them and said, “Get all the families together in one place.”

‘“They can come to us,” Ruth Steinberg said. “They can hide with us. But when? How long?”

‘“You'll sail on Friday,” Klaus told her. “The van will park outside your house at one o'clock in the morning, for five minutes, no more. You must all be ready; no delays or he won't wait. The driver is risking his life to help you.”

‘“God will reward him,” Ruth said fervently. “And you.”

‘Hester Rubenstein said nothing. Klaus smiled more warmly, but with a hint of modesty. It had won him many clients and clinched some good deals in the past.

‘“My reward will be to know you're all safe in Sweden,” he said. He couldn't help looking at the blonde girl, with feeding and care she would be a startling beauty, and he had always appreciated beauty in objects and in people. “You had better go now. I'll give my friend the address. For God's sake, don't get picked up.” He saw them disappear down the backstreet in the darkness. For a moment he shuddered. It was cold outside with a night mist and the two figures looked like ghosts.'

‘The families assembled over the next three days. They came singly and in couples, moving by night, watching in terror for the wardens who patrolled the streets. They braved two more air raids. The seventy-five-year-old Heime Brauner collapsed with a heart attack; they left him dead in a doorway. Each carried a bag of clothes, what little food they had to last till Friday, and the treasures hoarded against just such an eventuality. The Brauners had some jewellery and what was left from their Fabergé objects and some gold coins; the Steinbergs had a Matisse and a Raoul Dufy, rolled up and wrapped in paper. The last adult survivor of the Rabinowitz family was seventy-nine years old; her grandchildren—two boys and a girl—were eleven, nine and six years old. Their parents and all other relatives had been deported east. Frau Rabinowitz had three exquisite gold boxes, one encrusted with diamonds. They would fetch enough for her and the children to live on till the war was over. She had distant relatives in America who would take the children.'

‘Hester Rubenstein's parents-in-law brought more jewellery—loose stones prized out of their settings and stored in a leather pouch—and in their luggage was a treasure that would never be bartered for their lives. Its survival was as important to the Rubensteins as their own children. They had been guarding it for centuries, ever since a Sephardic Jew on a rare excursion into Eastern Europe had entrusted it to their ancestors as he lay dying. The Rubensteins were Ashkenazi Jews, inferior in purity of race and belief to the Sephardi, but it was the lesser of two evils to pass on the ancient treasure to them, rather than risk it falling into Gentile hands. It was hidden in a leather scroll, and for hundreds of years no Rubenstein had unrolled and exposed it to the light; father had passed it to son and told him what was inside. When the family escaped to Sweden, they would take the scroll with them.

‘The group was excited and nervous. Even the children, so long used to living in terrified silence with their German protectors, made a little noise and quarrelled. They had parted from their Aryan friends with tears. Frau Rabinowitz reminded her grandchildren every day that there were good brave Germans, risking their own lives to save Jews. But one heart-breaking problem remained: there were eighteen people and only twelve places. The elders made the choice on Thursday night. Ruth's husband refused to go. His parents were old and in poor health, and he must take care of them; he would try to escape separately. Frau Rabinowitz was not discussed; her grandchildren guaranteed her a place. Hester's parents-in-law stepped down for her, the baby and their son. That left four more places. Heime Brauner's widow stood up and said simply that, without her husband, she had no wish to start a new life in a strange country. God would protect her; she would stay behind, and live on through her children, Hilda and Benjamin, and their two children. The hours before 1 a.m. on Friday were spent in prayers. It was a bright moonlit night, with every star in the sky glittering like diamonds. Hester's husband embraced his parents and wept; his father held the baby in his arms and blessed him. His last words to his son, Jacob Rubenstein, were, “Take care of the boy and remember what you carry with you. Pass it on to him when the time comes. Go and live your life and be happy.”'

‘At exactly one in the morning, Albrecht Hoffman stopped the van outside the back entrance of the house. He opened the rear doors and the first of the Jews came out. He didn't speak, but only made an impatient gesture for them to climb inside. Watching them, he felt a cold rage; they thought they were escaping, carrying their money and their loot.

‘The baby in a woman's arms made a whimpering noise and she stifled it with her hand. He wanted to curse the old ones for their slowness. In the old days he would have speeded them on with blows or a kick. He closed the door on them and bolted it shut, then he began the drive through the night to the coastal spot of Büsum where the Swedish trawler would be anchored offshore.'

‘The boat rocked in a gentle swell. The captain surveyed the bright night sky and cursed. He was fifty years old, toughened by years of brutal dangerous work. He had smuggled goods over the years, and occasionally people, so long as they could pay. He believed that laws were made to be broken by men clever and ruthless enough to get away with it. For the last two years he had been spotting for German U-boats. The victims had never once come into his mind. Money was his love, his sole motivation; he would do anything for money. He had hand-picked his crew from the scum of the seaport: ex-criminals, drifters, ready to do anything if the reward was big enough. He had worked for Albrecht Hoffman before and he knew what was expected. He didn't like the bright sky; British planes might ignore the Swedish colours painted on his upper deck. He cursed again, and scanned the shore through night glasses. Then he saw the van's sidelights, coming along the coast road, pulling in and driving slowly down the track leading to the beach.

‘He shouted an order. “They're here. Make the boat ready!” It would take two trips. They were huddled on the beach now, muffled indeterminate figures. Five smaller ones. He cursed again. “Children, shit! Never mind.” The boat was lowered; it chugged across the slight swell, heading for the beach. His first mate was a big morose Swede, who had served a long prison sentence for killing a man in a fight; the crew were in awe of him because of his size and reputation. The Captain said, without turning, “Get the hatches off the hold.” The first mate gave the order as, below them, the little boat was coming alongside.

‘A rope ladder was thrown over the side. “Help them,” the first mate ordered, and two men steadied the ladder and reached down to heave the passengers on board. When they were on deck, the boat returned for the others waiting on the beach. They stood uncertainly, looking around them; there was an atmosphere of unease; one of the children—the six-year-old Rabinowitz child—burst into tears.

‘“Welcome aboard,” the captain said in thick German. “You'll have to go below. It stinks of fish, but you'll have to put up with it. And there's not much room, so leave your baggage up on deck and we'll stow it where we can. Hurry along now.” The crew were helping them climb down into the hold; the stench was nauseating—fish and bilge-water. Water gleamed in the moonlight, slopping about on the floor of the hold. Benjamin Brauner protested. “My wife can't go down there … it's filthy!”

‘“Better than a cattle truck,” the captain said.

‘Hilda Brauner said quickly, “He's right. What does it matter if it's dirty … smells can be washed away. Come on, don't make a fuss …”

‘Obediently they disappeared into the hold. The boat returned from its second trip. It was the youngest crew member who helped Hester Rubenstein climb up the ladder by going down and taking the baby out of her arms. He handed her up over the side. Her pale face was visible in the brightness; her shawl had fallen back and her hair was like silver. He stared at her. She held out her arms for the baby. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you for saving us.” He had been in trouble since he'd run away to sea at sixteen. He hated authority, that was the cause of his brushes with the police, and his dismissal from one ship after another. He'd lived like a dock rat, thieving and earning money without asking questions, but he had never seen anything like that girl, with her face like a pearl in the soft light, her long hair come loose and waving gently in the night breeze.

‘“Down in the hold,” the first mate said. “Hurry it up!”

‘The young crewman held her back. “She can't go down there … she's got a kid!”

‘The big man stared at him. “I've got eyes,” he said, “I can see. She goes down with the others.” He swung away as the captain shouted for him. Hester Rubenstein started to follow the last of the Brauners.

‘“No,” the crewman said in Swedish. “No, you don't go there, you come with me.” He spoke in Swedish and she didn't understand. He caught her by the arm and hurried her aft, skirting the hold. When she resisted, he pulled her after him. They weren't noticed; the crew were busy preparing to close the hold and batten down the hatches.

‘He didn't take her to the crew's quarters, instead they climbed down the ladder below the main deck. She refused to go any further, but stopped, hugging the baby with both arms, staring at him in terror and confusion.

‘“Where are you taking me? I want to go to my husband. Let me go!” Her voice was rising to a scream. If she was heard, he'd get into trouble for disobeying the first mate's order; he couldn't let that happen.

He grabbed her and held her mouth shut with one hand. He put his face close and said in a whisper, speaking a bastard German picked up from other seamen, “You want your kid to die? You make a noise and you both die … you understand me. You keep quiet, you stay quiet. You don't move, see, you don't let the kid cry.”

‘He looked round; there was a cramped little storeroom, not much bigger than a cupboard. He reached out and opened the door. It was dark and smelled of oil and tarred rope. The light in the passage showed that there was just enough room for her if she crouched down. He pushed her inside, freeing her mouth. “Stay quiet,” he repeated. “I'll get you later, you understand?”

‘“My husband,” she moaned. “Where's my husband?”

‘“He's with the others,” he said. “He'll be all right. Safer for you here. Safer for the kid.” He put a finger to his lips to make sure she understood, then he closed the door. He didn't know why he'd done it. He didn't understand what it was about her in those few seconds when she came aboard and held out her arms for her child that made him save her life. He'd just given way to the impulse. The first mate would beat him to a pulp if he found out. There was a bolt on the door, and he shot it quietly into its socket. Now she couldn't get out. He went back up on deck.

‘Down in the darkness and the stink of the hold, Jacob Rubenstein was calling his wife's name. He couldn't see and he couldn't find her; he stumbled over others; they cried out.

‘“Hester? Hester?” The Rabinowitz children were screaming because they were frightened, some of the other women began to sob, and Ruth Steinberg, overcome by the fumes and the smell, crouched in the two inches of slimy sea water, retching. One of the men managed to climb up and bang his fists on the hatch.

‘“Let us out! Open this, let us out … We can't breathe down here!” The boat suddenly dropped into a wave trough and he was thrown off the ladder. He fell backwards, striking his head. Up on deck, the captain heard the cries and the screams of the children. They were well away from the coast, heading for the open sea. There was wind coming up and the swell was getting heavier. It wouldn't do to delay too long; his men couldn't manhandle the Jews in heavy weather. He gave it until land was out of sight and there was nothing but the dark waste of the North Sea, white-foamed waves breaking the surface. He looked at his watch; they'd been out nearly two hours. The disturbance in the hold had stopped; he guessed they were prostrate with the ship's motion. He gave the order to stop engines and drop anchor. He had the crew summoned on deck with a man at the wheel to keep her steady in the swell. He chose Johansen, the crewman who had sneaked back up on deck from the storeroom.

‘“Johansen, take the wheel. Open the hatches and get ready. Stand by!”

‘They came willingly, desperate for fresh air and release from their vile heaving prison below, and as they climbed over onto the deck, they were seized. Those who resisted, like Jacob Rubenstein and the younger Brauners, were clubbed before being thrown over the side. The women were grabbed like sacks and flung over the rail. The children, screaming and clinging to their grandmother, presented no problem; the old woman went overboard and they fell with her. It was done in less than fifteen minutes, then there was a silence. The crew stood and stared at the heads bobbing in the water and listened to their cries. The sea temperature would kill most of them before they had time to drown. The captain gave the order.