Stattin Station (25 page)

'I'm his wife,' she said, squeezing past him. 'Ute.' She opened another door. 'Walter's in here.'

Metza was in an armchair, with one heavily strapped leg resting on a cushioned upright chair. The left side of his face was a mass of healing lesions, and the hair on that side of his head was still growing back. He was at least ten years older than his wife, but the two young girls examining Russell with great curiosity clearly belonged to both of them - the older one looked like him, the younger one like her. The wife quickly shooed the two girls into the other room and shut the door behind the three of them.

Russell explained who he was, who he worked for, and how he was trying to build up a picture of what was really happening in Russia before the outbreak of German-American hostilities caused his deportation. Metza nodded his understanding, and asked for reassurance that his name would not be mentioned.

'No. And I'll make damn sure that no one could deduce my source from reading the story.'

'Then fire away.'

Russell began running through the questions he had prepared. The driver answered them in a slow but confident voice, often thinking for several moments before speaking. He was, Russell guessed, one of the many workers who had benefited from the KPD's sponsorship of adult education classes in the late 1920s.

Metza had mostly been employed on the main line to Moscow through Brest, Minsk and Smolensk, which, as Russell knew, was the principal supply route for Army Group Centre. The whole line had needed re-gauging for German locomotives and rolling stock, the driver explained, and most of it had been. The continued use of Russian locomotives and rolling stock complicated matters, but those problems were proving surmountable. Others were not. Every Reichsbahn district manager in Germany had volunteered his worst workers for service in the East, and Reichsbahn equipment had proved utterly inadequate for the conditions. 'The Soviets have their steam pipes inside the boiler on their locomotives, so that they do not freeze up,' Metza explained. 'Ours are outside, and of course they do. And that's just one of the differences. Their tenders carry more water, so their water towers are further apart, too far apart for ours. There are so many problems like that. Our trains are just not built for Russian conditions.'

And then there were the partisans. 'At first we thought, "Ah, this is just a small nuisance that we'll have to get used to", but the attacks grew more frequent very quickly, and now they are a major problem. Lines are blown up, bridges too - there are so many long stretches of track running through empty forests. Not that the partisans stick to the countryside - sabotage attacks are common in cities like Minsk and Smolensk.'

'I know it's an impossible question,' Russell said, 'but how much is the Army getting of what it needs? Are there just difficulties, or is there a real supply crisis?'

Metza thought about that for a moment, idly scratching at his side where less visible injuries were presumably itching. 'In early November, when I was wounded, there were serious difficulties. And from what comrades have told me since then, I would guess that those difficulties have turned into a real crisis. Even three weeks ago the yards in Brest and Baranovichi were full of supplies which couldn't be moved, and from what I hear the blockages are now backed up as far as Warsaw.'

'How were you wounded?' Russell asked out of curiosity.

'A partisan attack.' He had seen the blown bridge in time to stop, but his stationary train had immediately come under fire. 'And not just from rifles. It was a mortar that got me. It landed in the tender.' Metza smiled ruefully. 'They'd obviously fired a few before we arrived to get the range.' He flexed his leg in remembrance. 'Nothing that won't heal. I was lucky. My fireman was killed outright, and about twenty others. If a troop train hadn't pulled up behind us it would have been a lot worse.'

'How do you feel about going back?'

'Not good. I mean, no one wants to die or get maimed in a good cause, and our cause stinks. I was a member of the Party before the Nazis came to power, and I'm still a communist at heart. Why would I want to see the Soviet Union destroyed? But what choice do I have, a married man with two daughters? We lost in '33, and we'll have to keep paying the price until someone else brings the bastard down.'

Russell had more specific questions about fuel and food supplies, but Metza couldn't help him - 'All the people at the forward depots ever complained about was the lack of winter clothing.' The driver did have more information about the Jews. Special SS squads called
einsatzgruppen
were combing the occupied territories, and rumour had it that Jews in small villages and towns were simply being shot. In big cities like Minsk they were only being forced into the ghettoes. There were no large-scale transports, either east or west, although that might be down to a simple shortage of trains.

Metza was visibly tiring, although he managed a smile when a sudden burst of high-pitched laughter erupted in the other room. Russell put his notebook away, and got to his feet. 'I have a favour to ask. I need to talk to Gerhard Strohm, and I have no way of contacting him. I know he works in the Stettin Station yards but it's always been him getting in touch with me, not the other way round. Could you get word to him, tell him I need to speak to him? It is urgent.'

The driver nodded. 'I can do that. But not until the morning.'

'That'll do. Tell him he can telephone me tomorrow evening, any time after six.'

They shook hands, and Russell let himself out. As he steered his way back through the blackout to the U-Bahn station, he imagined the mother and daughters reoccupying the room he had just vacated, pushing back the war with their laughter.

Effi usually left work early on a Friday, and today it was even earlier - a sudden row between director and writer had been won by the former, necessitating a weekend rewrite and the postponement of shooting. John being already home was a nice surprise; the news that they had to stay in and wait for a call from his railwayman was most definitely not, particularly since the call itself would probably result in her spending the rest of the evening alone. Seeing her disappointment, Russell suggested they went out immediately for an early dinner. If Strohm called in the meantime, he would doubtless call again.

As it happened, the German-American called ten minutes after their return. 'Klaus, I heard you were trying to reach me.'

'Yes. Thanks for calling. There's another game tonight at Number 21. Same time - 8.30. Can you make it?'

There was a moment's pause. 'Yes, I can,' Strohm said. He was, Russell guessed, somewhat mystified by the request for a meeting.

Half an hour later he left Effi curled up on the sofa and walked down to Savignyplatz. This time a westbound train drew in almost instantly, and he arrived at Westkreuz with almost half an hour to spare. The sky was as clear as yesterday's, the temperature probably lower, and after enduring twenty minutes of the chilling breeze the only way he could find to warm himself was by stamping up and down the steps between the station's two levels.

At least Strohm was on time. They went through the same charade as before, leaving the station, returning, and retreating to the end of a platform.

'I need your help,' Russell told the other man. He explained about Sullivan - the putative deal, the arrest and murder, the still-missing papers. 'He must have put them in the left luggage. He was coming from that direction when I saw him, but I didn't make the connection until his wife told me he was carrying a briefcase. I've got a description and I need to get in there and look for it. Are there any comrades working there who can let me in? Or someone else who'll take a bribe to look the other way?'

'I don't know,' Strohm said. 'I suppose you've thought of just turning up and saying you lost the ticket?'

'I have. But Sullivan's initials are on the briefcase, and I have no papers to prove that I'm him, even if I wanted to try. And if either the police or Sullivan's murderers have a similar brainwave about the left luggage, they'll end up getting my description from whomever I talk to, which I definitely don't want. No, in this instance, the illegal way seems the safest way. I want whoever helps me to have a personal motive for keeping quiet. Loyalty to the cause would be best. I mean, think about it. These papers will prove that American and German capitalists are determined to carry on sharing out profits while Germans and American workers are dying on the battlefields. It's perfect propaganda because it's so fucking true.' Strohm grunted. 'I'll see what I can do. When can I call you?'

'Tomorrow between five and seven?'

'All right. If I can arrange something I'll give you a time and day for a movie, and we'll meet at Stettin Station. If I can't I'll ask for Wolfgang, and you can tell me I've got the wrong number.'

Back home, Russell found Effi in bed, almost asleep. 'Sorry,' she said. 'It's these five o'clock starts. Come and hold me.'

He did for ten minutes or so, finally disentangling himself when her breathing grew heavier. His brain seemed to be humming with possibilities, most of them dire, and listening to the nine o'clock news on the BBC engendered boredom without inducing calm. He wondered whether he should pack. He probably should, but what? His books were mostly still in boxes, and his only other prized possession was an unusable car. Clothes, he supposed, but how many of those would he need? Was he supposed to take all his underwear into exile?

Rummaging through a drawer he came across a collection of Paul's pictures from his first school, and one in particular - a collection of stick- figured Hertha Berlin players wildly celebrating a goal - caught his eye. On impulse he folded it up and tucked it into his wallet. A photograph of Effi was already there, a head and shoulders shot that Thomas had taken during a boating day on the Havel four, five years ago. Her face was turned towards the camera, an impish smile warring with the seriousness in her eyes. Thomas had caught both the child and the adult, which was no mean feat.

Russell picked up the phone and called his ex-brother-in-law. 'How are things?' he asked, once Thomas had picked up.

'As good as can be expected. You're not out on the town, then?'

'No, Effi's gone to bed. Early mornings and all that.'

'Ah.'

Why had he rung? Russell didn't really know. 'I'm just rummaging through my worldly possessions, wondering what to pack,' he said. 'It could be any day now, and, well, if anything should happen to Ilse and Matthias, you will...'

'Of course,' Thomas said, sounding almost hurt that Russell would ever doubt it.

'I know you will. Sorry.'

'And make sure to tell Effi that we want to keep seeing her,' Thomas added.

'I will.'

'If you are still here next week, let's meet for lunch. Tuesday at the usual time and place?'

'Why break the habits of a lifetime?'

'Why indeed?'

'I'll see you then.'

'Goodnight, John.'

Saturday morning they slept in, then walked down to the Ku'damm for a late breakfast. The sun was shining, and pre-war numbers of well-wrapped Berliners were sitting at outside tables, sipping their ersatz coffee and smiling at each other. Everyone seemed in good spirits - it was wonderful what two clear nights without an air raid could do.

'And the forecast for tonight is cloudy,' Russell read aloud from his half of the newspaper. 'There is a God.'

'There's also Goebbels,' Effi murmured. 'He has a whole trainload of women's fur coats ready for shipment to the front.'

'The troops'll look very fetching,' Russell observed.

She laughed and looked at her watch. 'I have to go,' she said, but made no move to do so. 'I do love Zarah, but... I assumed you'd be spending the day with Paul.'

'Not a good assumption these days. The
Hitlerjugend
has first call.'

She picked up her cup, realised it was empty, and put it down again. This, Russell thought, is how she always ends up being late. 'I've got to go too,' he said encouragingly, and she reluctantly got to her feet.

They parted at the tram stops outside the Universum, she heading west towards Grunewald, he travelling east towards the old city and what would probably prove a long and futile afternoon attending to business. His first stop was the table of foreign newspapers at the Press Club, his second the Adlon bar, where his fellow-American journalists seemed to be waiting, drinks in hand, for someone to shout 'Last orders' on their Berlin sojourn. It felt to Russell as if everyone was holding his breath, or at least waiting for some sign that the wind had decided which way to blow. Who was winning outside Moscow? Who was winning in North Africa? Where and when would the Japanese strike? The war seemed at a tipping point, yet refused to tip.

He was back home in time to hear the six o'clock news from the BBC, but an encouraging tone was all that London had to offer. Effi's key was just turning in the lock when the telephone rang. It was Strohm.

'That film you asked about,' the familiar voice began. 'It's showing at the Metropole at five o'clock tomorrow afternoon.'

'I'll meet you there,' Russell told him. The Hertha game would be over by four - he'd just have to put Paul on the U-Bahn.

'The railwayman?' Effi asked.

Russell nodded and reached for his newspaper. 'It's on for tomorrow evening,' he said, scanning the cinema listings. The film at the Metropole was indeed opening at five. Strohm was thorough. 'How was Zarah?' he asked.

Effi made a face. 'She's all right. Jens is still trying to atone. How long that will last is anyone's guess. She needs to help him, but I'm not sure she knows how. I'm not sure I do.' She sighed. 'But enough. Let's have some fun. Can we leave the war behind for a few hours?'

'We can try.'

They did. A better than usual meal at one of their pre-war favourite restaurants was a good start, and only slightly spoiled by a tall, thin and very insistent SS officer, who leaned over their table like a black heron and gushed his way through an account of Effi's career that would have embarrassed her old agent. As a
piece de resistance
he took off one black leather glove, revealing an index finger encased in plaster which Effi was required to sign.