Potsdam Station (13 page)

He supposed the same could be said of Christians and Christianity. Russell had been an atheist as long as he could remember, and generally despised all religion, but there was no denying the integrity and bravery of those individual Christians who had stood up to the Nazis, and who were now either dead or languishing in concentration camps. Perhaps both Christianity and communism only worked in opposition, as inspirational ideologies for the have-nots of any particular time and place. Once the proponents of those ideologies became established in power, moral corrosion always set in.

It was not an original thought, but he was very tired. He could think up a new universal theory tomorrow, or perhaps the day after. There seemed no shortage of time.

It was him, Effi thought; she was certain it was. She tried to force her way through to the windows on the other side, but made little headway. The train was packed with real refugees, bearing all the belongings that they’d managed to rescue from the ruins of their former lives, and they weren’t about to surrender another square foot.

‘What are you doing?’ Rosa shouted after her, the obvious anxiety stopping Effi in her tracks.

‘I thought I saw someone I knew,’ Effi told her, once they were together in the corridor.

‘Who?’ Rosa asked excitedly. ‘No, don’t tell me,’ she quickly added, having obviously realised than the ‘someone’ might well be out of place in their new fictional existences.

‘He was the son of an old friend,’ Effi told her. ‘I haven’t seen him for two years,’ she added. And then only for a few seconds in the Tiergarten. He’d been a
flakhelfer
then, but now he was wearing an army uniform. He looked about a foot taller. And he was heading east, into the disaster which everyone knew awaited the army.

Both before and during the war – right up until his illicit exit in December 1941 – John had often talked about taking Paul and her away from Germany, but they had always known that the boy would refuse to go. His father might be English, but his mother, stepfather, stepsisters, friends – his life – were German.

And this was where his generation of German boys had ended up.

She felt like weeping, but that was nothing new.

At least she and Rosa were on a train, with a chance of reaching Berlin before the Russians. And after almost twenty-four hours in Fürstenwalde that was something to be thankful for.

After around an hour the train jerked back into motion, and was soon moving at a surprisingly respectable speed. This remained so until they reached Köpenick, where it slowed to a crawl before eventually stopping completely. There was a fine view of the sunset through the window, but no explanation given for the delay. By the time they got going again darkness had fallen, and the refugees were spared an early sighting of their capital in ruins.

It could hardly have made them more anxious. There was near-silence among the refugees as the train rattled in towards Silesian Station, even the children hushed by their parents’ obvious concern. There was no rush for the doors when the train came to a halt, which suited Effi very well. She knew where the NSV desk was, and hoped to be first in the queue. In the event, she settled for fourth, and while those in first place began filling in forms, she took a look around the familiar concourse. Before the war, this was where their old enemy Drehsen had met his victims, and she had dangled herself in front of him as a means of discovering where he had taken the others. It seemed a long time ago. She remembered sitting in the car with Russell on Dragoner Strasse, eager to confront the bastard in his lair. He had made her wait, and she had admitted that patience was not one of her virtues. Well, that had at least changed. If the Nazis had taught her anything, it was patience.

They had reached second place in the queue when all the lights went out. There were gasps and shrieks from the waiting refugees, which a subsequent announcement through the loudspeakers only partly allayed. When the sirens began, somewhat belatedly, to wail out their warning, several people burst into hysterical laughter.

Red Cross workers bearing flashlights soon brought some order to the proceedings, leading everyone down to the shelter under the station. The lighting was dim, the smell dreadful, but the ceiling seemed, to Ef- fi’s practised eye, reassuringly substantial. She and Rosa laid claim to an empty corner and watched their fellow refugees get used to city life. One family had lost a suitcase, and the father was soon telling anyone who’d listen that they’d been right about Berliners – they really were all thieves.

Yes, and all East Prussians have the brains of sheep, Effi thought to herself. It had been a long day.

The settling-in process was just about complete when the all-clear sounded, and this time the queue was almost halfway across the concourse by the time they reached it. A helpful Red Cross worker pointed them in the direction of a canteen, and while they were eating their bowls of dubious stew a couple of well-mannered
Hitlerjugend
came over to ask if they needed help.

Effi seized the opportunity. ‘My handbag’s been stolen,’ she said, clearly close to tears. ‘I don’t care about the handbag, but my papers were in it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ the elder of the two youths told her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘You just need to report the loss. Once you’ve finished your dinner I can show you where.’

He was as good as his word, escorting them both to the relevant station office. A form was provided, which Effi filled out and signed with her new name – Dagmar Fahrian. The official presented her with a carbon copy, which he said she would need for obtaining replacements. The people at the NSV desk would explain it all.

But not today. The sirens began wailing again, and everyone hurried back underground. By the time the all-clear sounded two hours later, the NSV desk had closed and all public transport had ceased for the night. There was nothing for it but to sleep in the shelter.

Russell reckoned it was around ten in the morning when they next came for him, a surprisingly civilised hour by NKVD standards. And their route to the interrogation room seemed more direct, which also might bode well.

He reminded himself that hope was dangerous.

This time there were two of them, Colonel Ramanichev in his usual place, another uniformed officer sitting slightly to one side. He was probably in his early forties, stockier than his companion, with swept-back black hair, sallow skin and a Stalin moustache. He looked Georgian or Armenian, and was wearing a variant of the NKVD uniform which Russell didn’t recognise.

Russell sat down. There was a bad smell in the room, and he had no difficulty in identifying the source. It was himself.

Ramanichev, who had obviously noticed it too, got up to open a window. As he sat back down a distant peal of laughter was audible. The world was still out there.

‘Has the war ended yet?’ Russell asked pleasantly.

Ramanichev gave him a look. ‘No,’ he said after a moment, ‘it has not.’

‘Pity.’

Ramanichev glanced briefly at his fellow-officer, as if seeking permission to proceed. ‘When I questioned you three days ago,’ he began, ‘you stated with absolute certainty that the American Army had abandoned its plans to advance on Berlin.’

‘Correct,’ Russell agreed, with a lot more confidence than he felt. What had bloody Eisenhower done now?

‘The American 9th Army reached the Elbe River the day before yesterday, and yesterday they crossed it. At Schönebeck, near Magdeburg. You know where that is?’

‘Of course.’

‘They are only a hundred kilometres from Berlin.’

‘Are they still advancing?’

‘No,’ Ramanichev conceded reluctantly, ‘not as yet.’

Russell shrugged. ‘You know how it works. Front-line generals like to put pressure on their bosses. Whoever’s in charge of the 9th Army – his orders were probably to stop at the river, but he’ll have found some good reason to send a few men across, and if there’s any resistance they’ll have to be reinforced. If there isn’t, he’ll have shown the top brass that the road to Berlin is open. He’ll want to push on, but they won’t let him.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because that’s what was decided. Those airborne divisions you claimed were making preparations – are they still?’

‘That is unclear.’

‘So they’re not. I’m telling you the truth. Eisenhower is going to let the Red Army take Berlin. And the casualties that go with it. ’

‘You’d stake your life on that.’

‘I think I probably have.’

Ramanichev smiled his agreement. ‘My colleague has some questions for you.’

‘What do you know about the German programme to create an atomic explosive?’ the other man asked without preamble. He had a slightly rasping voice, and several gold teeth which glinted when he opened his mouth.

The sudden change of subject caught Russell out. ‘Only that it didn’t amount to much,’ he said without thinking. ‘Nothing’ would have been a much better answer.

‘Explain,’ the man said peremptorily.

‘I have no inside knowledge of the subject…’

‘That is hard to believe. This must be a matter of great importance to American intelligence.’

Russell sighed. ‘As I’ve told the comrade here, I no longer have any connection to American intelligence. As a journalist, I did hear certain stories.’

‘Such as?’

Russel paused, wondering what to say. He had tried to keep abreast of atomic developments over the last few years – had even tried to understand the scientific and engineering problems involved – but there seemed no point in admitting as much in a Lyubyanka interrogation room. ‘I know one of the journalists who covered the Strasbourg story last December,’ he said. ‘When the French stumbled across that laboratory. He wasn’t given any access to the scientific details, but it was no secret that the American scientists who went over the place were all profoundly relieved. Whatever it was they found, it convinced them that the Germans were a million miles away from building an atomic bomb. But that’s all I know.’

‘You said stories, in the plural.’

‘I was exaggerating. I don’t know anything else about the German programme. Any fool could tell you that the Americans will be trying for an atomic bomb, but only the scientists will know how far they’ve got. And maybe the president, if they’ve bothered to tell him.’

Ramanichev smiled at that, but his companion just seemed disappointed. Five minutes later Russell was back in his cell, wondering what had just transpired.

Effi and Rosa were first in line when the Welfare Agency staff arrived at their Silesian Station desk that morning. Rosa had been working on a sketch of the concourse for about half an hour, and the two welfare workers spent so long admiring it that Effi’s patience was sorely tested. Wherever they were going, they needed to get there before the morning raid.

Once fully engaged, however, their young woman helper proved both kind and efficient. She took down every false detail she was given, and asked where Effi wanted to go.

‘We plan to stay here in Berlin,’ Effi said, realising as she did so that she’d never considered doing anything else.

‘Are you sure?’ the woman asked. ‘The bombing is very bad, and most refugees choose not to stay here. They go further west, to a small town, or into the countryside.’

Effi wavered, but only for a second. It would be safer for Rosa, and probably for herself, but no. She couldn’t leave without letting Zarah know she was all right, or God only knew what risks her sister would take to find her. Even leaving the house was a risk these days. And then there was Ali, who would also be worried. And she knew Berlin. Anywhere else she would feel like a fish out of water. ‘I must stay here,’ she replied. ‘We have relatives here, distant cousins of my late husband’s. I’m afraid I don’t have their address any longer – it was in my bag. But they live in Friedrichshain. Their name is Schmidt.’

‘There are a lot of Schmidts in Friedrichshain…’

‘I know, it’s a common name. But if you could find us a room in that area, then maybe I can find them. We visited them before the war, and I think I would recognise their street if I saw it.’

‘That may not be as easy as you think,’ the woman told her. ‘The bombing has been quite fierce, you know.’ She opened a large ledger, and sought out the relevant page. ‘Of course you may be lucky,’ she added, as she ran her finger down a margin. ‘And Friedrichshain is one of our best areas for empty properties.’

Which is why I chose it, Effi thought. A lot of Jews had lived in Friedrichshain.

‘We have a room on Olivaer Strasse,’ the woman said. ‘It belonged to an old woman who died. There may be relations with a claim to it, but for the moment… well, it is a long way out, but in present circumstances that’s almost a bonus – you’ll have less chance of being bombed. She took a map from a drawer and spread it in front of Effi. ‘Olivaer Strasse is somewhere in here,’ she said, circling the area between Friedrichshain Park and the stockyards.

Rosa found it almost immediately.

‘That looks perfect,’ Effi said.

The woman added the address to the papers she’d already made out, checked through each one, and stamped them both. ‘You must take these to the local NSV office, and they will issue a residence permit,’ she said as she handed them over. ‘And you must keep drawing,’ she told Rosa.