The Exit Strategy

Note: This story contains references to Holocaust-era persecution, antisemitism, war-related trauma, and brief depictions of emotional distress and dehumanizing language used by Nazi officers. Reader discretion is advised.

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The little boy indicated to me that he was thirsty and pointed to the bottle that popped out of the zipper of my backpack. I handed the bottle to him and got a soft and tired ‘Danke’ in return. I smiled and watched him gulp down whatever water remained. It was a sad sight, but things were going to get better for him and his family—or so I promised.

The rattle of old, loose train parts filled a silence that wouldn’t have existed if the refugees weren’t so tired. Pretending to be Swiss was a painful task, especially when the only German I knew was just enough to order a coffee or buy a train ticket. What made it harder was trying to get these innocent Jews to safety—to Zurich and then all the way to London from there—and then wherever the British government sent them after.

The war was taking a toll on everyone. I watched death, abductions and other misdeeds happen in front of me, but unfortunately was powerless to stop them at most moments.

I enlisted in the British army as a private at seventeen (lied about my age, of course). In a few years time they upgraded me to a spy for reasons I still do not understand. Hardly felt like an upgrade though because the pay was still trash and the risks far exceeded what I was used to as a soldier. But apparently I had a good sense of humour or so I was told, which made me a people pleaser and enabled me to get into places which usually would have been hard to get into.

Posing as a professor of physics at the University of Zurich got me entry into Germany with some level of difficulty. It often required bribes, forged permits, or fake academic conference invitations to slip past border scrutiny. The cover, however, granted me access to universities, academic circles, and the networks I needed to locate Jews who had been in hiding for years—some still hoping things would blow over while others desperately looked for a way out. But the way things were going, it was clear: nothing was going to blow over.

What I really would have appreciated though, was more time to learn German before getting thrown into Herr Hitler’s hunting ground. The English were not welcome here at a time like this, which meant I was usually Swiss or Swedish depending on what day it was or which part of the country I was keeping Jewish refugees alive. With forged identities and a false academic history, what could go wrong?

Being Swiss usually worked when I needed to enter Germany through the border as long as not too many questions were asked. My German comprehension had improved over the years. Speaking it though, was not really my cup of tea—and as an Englishman, I knew a thing or two about a cup of tea. Also, posing as a Swede occasionally worked because apparently I looked Swede. According to my late father, I was 1/16th Swedish from his mother’s side or something of the sort—go figure.

Over the years, I had helped about thirty Jewish families across France, Germany, Belgium and Switzerland escape, apart from also collecting useful scraps of information from drunk soldiers or loose-lipped generals—information that would help Britain in the war.

This would have been impossible without the help of my good friend Niklas from Köln (Cologne). Not everyone made it though. Some families disappeared along the way, their faces and screams still visiting me at night, though I can barely tell the difference between nightmares and reality these days. With time, I had become numb to these setbacks—it became part of the job. Cruel but unavoidable.

Niklas, unlike me, was a real professor of physics who actually knew physics. He was one of the good ones—he risked everything to hide and help Jews escape. He first reached out to the British years ago at some physics symposium in Bern, where he discreetly slipped a message to an SIS liaison, knowing full well the consequences he would have to face if caught. Niklas started out as being my German contact but with time, we became good friends and eventually partners in what Hitler would describe to be the worst kind of crime in history. Ironic.

We were already halfway to Zurich now, without Niklas, who didn’t show up in time for the 2 PM train from Dresden Hauptbahnhof nor did he leave a message. I wasn’t too worried because sometimes, it was difficult for him to make a believable excuse to his Nazi colleagues to be able to get away. Times like these were the hardest considering my German was challenged and my Yiddish was nonexistent, so communicating with members of the Gestapo or the refugees became a task I would have loved to avoid. Niklas usually took the lead in conversations and I played a supporting role with nods and random noises of acknowledgement.

Jakob Goldstein, an ex-professor of Mathematics at the University of Hannover, was the only member of his family that spoke fluent German. Apart from Yiddish, he spoke full and fluent German, his wife and children—Rachel, Hannah and Eli—were restricted to a hundred percent Yiddish, which meant I was about eighty percent screwed. Don’t ask me how I came up with that number—math was never my strong suit either.

We’d already prepared fake documents for them, all of which were in my backpack. Understandably, the family kept glancing at me with wide-eyed concern. I’d only met them a few hours ago—a complete stranger, and now their lives were quite literally in my hands.

The cover story was simple: a poor Danish family heading to Switzerland in search of work and safety. Harmless. Believable. Easy. At least on paper.

It had been about six hours since we left Dresden. There’d been barely any communication between us and from what I’d gathered, Herr Lux (Niklas) had already briefed the Goldsteins the day before.

We were roughly five hours from our destination when Jakob exchanged a few quiet words in Yiddish with Rachel, who had just finished a short exchange with Hannah. Then, all three of them looked at me. Jakob leaned forward slightly and asked, “Gibt es etwas zum Essen? Meine Kinder haben Hunger.”

My brain started to process: Essen — food. Kinder — children. Hunger — hunger. I had nothing in my backpack apart from papers and now an empty bottle. I hadn’t packed food before we left; there were more pressing things to handle at the time, which now meant I had to leave them in the small compartment and head to the train’s restaurant car to find something and bring it back.

Leaving them alone came with its own kind of risk. But watching the kids go hungry was worse. I poked my head out of the compartment, just long enough to scan the corridor. No uniforms in sight.

I nodded at Jakob. “Bin gleich wieder da,” I said — I’ll be right back. I handed him the documents and added in my best broken German, “Zeig Papiere. Sag nichts. Verstanden?”—Show papers. Say nothing. Understood?

He nodded once, tightly. I stepped into the corridor and made my way toward the restaurant car, trying to look like I belonged. I passed a few Nazi soldiers, already a few beers in, laughing and singing a song about some girl named Erika. I didn’t look back.

I reached the restaurant car and managed to get a few bread rolls and some juice — or whatever passed for juice during wartime. I paid with some of the cash Niklas had given me and started the slow walk back.

The journey back was uneventful. Until it wasn’t.

My heart nearly stopped when I turned the corner and saw a uniformed officer standing at our compartment door, flipping through the papers I’d handed Jakob. Years ago, that would’ve given me an instant arrhythmia. Now? Panic was my default setting. Just another Tuesday.

I stepped forward casually. “Entschuldigung, alles gut?” I asked, trying my best to sound Swiss—Everything okay?

The officer gave me a full-body scan, nodded once, and returned to the documents. I slid into my seat beside Eli, who was staring at the bread like it was treasure.

“Wohin?” the officer asked — Where to?

“Zurich,” I responded.

He turned to Jakob. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”—Do you speak German?

Jakob nodded. “Ein bisschen. Wir sind aus Süd-Dänemark.”—A little bit, we’re from the south of Denmark.

The officer smiled faintly. He then said something in a language I did not instantly recognize. Of course. This damn Nazi speaks Danish as well. Just my luck.

The family and I exchanged quick glances and to my surprise, Jakob responded to the officer in Danish. He replied in short, crisp sentences and the officer seemed convinced. He started joking in German about how Jews were scattering like cockroaches and pest control was becoming more of a problem. Jakob laughed, I laughed and the family followed, pretending to understand everything he said.

He returned the papers and said, “Alles klar, gute reise,”—All good, have a good journey—and walked away to check the other compartments for pests or Jews or whatever else they were exterminating these days.

“I live few years in Denmark till 1932,” Jakob said. “I speak little bit Danish also,” he continued in very broken English and a hard German accent.

I nodded and smiled, “Caught me off guard there, you saved all of us. Let’s just hope no one else comes by to check us out. But colour me impressed. Anything else you want to tell me about so I won’t have to overthink these situations for the rest of the journey?”

He did not understand all of that so he just replied, “Nein,” and began eating the bread rolls. I noticed that the family had now relaxed a little and was finally warming up to my presence. The children seemed content and the parents were satisfied. As the hour passed, the family was fast asleep.

I thought I’d grab some shut eye as well but then I realized I stopped sleeping years ago. Luckily for the family, we reached Zurich Hauptbahnhof without any further interruptions. Just outside the station, I saw Frank, the man who’d be taking over from me.

“Any problems on the way?” he asked.

I smiled, “Nothing we couldn’t handle. They were great,” I said as I patted little Eli on the head as he looked up at me with a smile.

I shook hands with Jakob, looked at the family and said, “Viel Glück und gute Reise!” and then handed Jakob an envelope of Swiss Francs that I had received from Niklas the previous day—Good luck and have a pleasant journey ahead!

I walked back to the station with a sense of relief, satisfied that nothing went wrong and happy that they were no longer my problem. I would probably never see them ever again. Come to think of it, I never actually ever again saw any of the families I had helped across the border. I didn’t even know for sure what happened to them after I handed them over to Frank or George or whoever else usually came to pick up the refugees.

I walked back to the platforms and boarded the next train to Berlin, channelling my inner Nazi in case my loyalty to the Führer was questioned on my journey back. I also got my forged documents in order because loyalty could only get me so far. I took my place in an empty compartment and closed my eyes, satisfied at another successful expedition and hoping there wouldn’t have to be another one.

Somewhere on my coat, I felt a small wetness—maybe from the juice earlier—which reminded me of Eli’s ‘Danke’. I wasn’t sure if I had saved them. I’m not sure I even cared anymore—not after everything I’d seen. But I got them through. And that had to be enough.