Stattin Station (34 page)

'Good luck,' he told them.

'And you.'

Andreas pushed them off, and the boat put-putted off into the darkness.

The steps were easy to find, and the bridge devoid of traffic. As they walked across to the Stettin side, Russell could feel his muscles tightening. The station was bound to be watched. Were their papers and disguises good enough?

'We must act like ordinary travellers,' he said, as much to himself as to her. 'Look confident. Do what ordinary travellers do. No skulking in the shadows.'

'Yes, husband,' Effi said.

They walked across the Schwedter Ufer and into the station. The small concourse was quite crowded, mostly with soldiers and sailors in uniform, which was probably fortunate. Their train, according to the departure board, was on time.

'The buffet,' Russell said. As they walked across the concourse, he saw no sign of a checkpoint at the tunnel entrance which led to the platforms. There might, of course, be guards waiting at each flight of stairs.

They found a table. The smell of food was inviting, but the queue was long and there was not much more than half an hour until their train's departure. 'Shall we go up now or wait?' he asked her.

'Let's leave it till the last minute,' she said, getting up again. 'I have to spend some time in the ladies.'

'I'll be here.' He watched her walk away, marvelling once again at how well she aged her movement, then leant over to gather an abandoned newspaper from the adjoining table.

After using the toilet, Effi stopped to examine her face in the long mirror behind the washbasins. There hadn't really been enough make-up left to work with, and she seemed to be getting younger again.

A middle-aged woman two basins down was staring at her in the mirror. 'Aren't you Effi Koenen?' the woman asked with barely suppressed excitement.

'No, please,' Effi heard herself say. Looking round, she saw that the cubicles were all open. There was no one else to overhear.

'I'm sorry,' the woman said. 'It must be so difficult having complete strangers come up and talk to you. I won't bother you with questions,' she said, rummaging through her handbag. 'But please, could I have your autograph?' She offered a pleading smile and held out a pencil and some sort of notebook.

It wasn't the look of someone who'd recognised a fugitive. Effi scribbled her name down and handed it back, praying that no one else would come in. 'Please don't tell anyone else that you've seen me,' she said.

'Of course not, and thank you. Thank you so much.' The woman hurried out, no doubt intent on sharing her secret with whatever companions she had.

Effi went back into a cubicle, shut the door and sat down. What was she going to say to John? He was so infuriatingly good at arguing - and this was one argument she had to win.

In the buffet Russell was finding it impossible to concentrate on the newspaper - the events in Russia, Africa and the rest of the wider world had lost their power to engage him. He was like a rat in a maze, he thought: all that mattered was the next turn.

Effi sat down, leaned her head towards him and took one of his hands. 'I'm not coming with you,' she said.

He looked at her blankly. 'What?'

'John, I was just recognised. A fan. A fan who wanted my autograph - she obviously hadn't seen our pictures in the papers. After she was gone I looked in the mirror, and I could recognise myself. The make-up's all gone, and I can't keep a scarf over my face for two days - even if I did there'll be inspections, there are bound to be. We would never get to Riga, but you can and you must.'

Her logic seemed inescapable, but logic had never been something he had associated with her, and it wasn't what he wanted to hear. 'No,' he said desperately. 'We're going together. We'll get there.'

'No, we won't. I'm going back to Berlin. We'll both have a better chance of survival on our own. You must see that.'

'No, I don't. How would you survive in Berlin?'

'As Eva Vollmar. Or Mathilde Sasowski. I don't know, but I'll manage. I
know
Berlin. In the last resort I have a sister there, and friends. I may go back to being Effi Koenen in a week or so - what can they accuse me of? No one saw us in the docks. I can just say I ran away with you, not knowing what you had done, and when I found out, I abandoned you. You won't mind that, will you? You'll be out of the country by then.'

'Of course not, but they'll never believe you.'

'They may want to. A film star who denounces a foreign spy must be good propaganda.'

Russell wanted to argue with her, but after almost a decade together he knew when her mind was made up. Given a few days he might be able to change it, but his train was leaving in thirteen minutes. He felt paralysed by the suddenness of it all.

'John, you know that I love you? And that I'll wait for you?'

'But how...'

'You must catch the train. Please.'

She was right and he knew it. If someone recognised her on the train they would both be trapped, caught, dragged back to Berlin for trial and execution. And someone probably would. They
would
both have a better chance if they went their separate ways - he would be more anonymous; she would be able to distance herself from his crimes.

But would she ever forgive him for abandoning her?

'I have never loved anyone the way I love you,' he said truthfully.

'I know that,' she replied, squeezing his hand and releasing it. Now go, she silently pleaded. Before she lost her nerve.

He got to his feet, and she followed suit. They held each other tightly, shared a long and tender kiss.

'The next time we meet, make sure you've shaved,' she chided.

'I will.' He picked up the bag and hesitated as he realised it also contained her stuff.

'Take it,' she said. 'You'll need the papers. I've got all I need in Berlin.' He kissed her again, turned, and automatically wove his way through the tables, only remembering to age his stride when he was halfway across the concourse. There was still no one at the tunnel entrance, but there were checkers at the bottom of the stairs leading to his platform - one bored-looking Gestapo officer in a leather coat and a younger assistant in uniform. Russell moved slowly towards them, trying to 'walk old' in the way she had taught him.

The leather coat barely glanced at him, and let his subordinate check the papers. The young man took one look at the picture, one at his face, and handed them back.

He reached the top of the steps as the train was pulling in. It was long and crowded, but many of the passengers would be Stettin-bound. He waited patiently as they streamed off, and finally climbed aboard. There were vacant seats in the several compartments, but he knew better than to trust himself in company. Placing his bag on an empty rack, he moved back into the corridor and stood staring out at the empty platforms, a sense of utter desolation coalescing in his soul.

Separate hells

The day's last train to Berlin was scheduled to depart in just over an hour. Fearful of being recognised, Effi left it until the last few minutes to purchase her ticket, but no one on the concourse or in the queue came rushing up to demand another autograph, and the man behind the booking office window didn't even raise his eyes to look at her.

Perhaps the woman in the mirror had only recognised her because at that particular moment her face had been so unguarded.

Had she over-reacted? No, she decided. Not that it mattered any more.

The Berlin train was full but not overcrowded. She walked the length of it, and found the badly-lit compartment she was looking for. There was only one seat left, but that was in a corner, and would allow her to turn her face from her fellow passengers. A soldier's pack sat on the seat opposite her, and its owner was still leaning out of the corridor window, gazing into his sweetheart's eyes. When the young man finally took his seat, his eyes still seemed far away.

She knew how he felt. Would she ever see John again? And if so, in how many years' time?

She closed her eyes, and realised she had a fight on her hands to hold back the tears. An actress who could cry to order should be able to manage the opposite, she told herself. She could do it. She had to do it.

The need slowly receded and as the train rattled across the Pomeranian countryside she feigned sleep and told herself to concentrate on the next few minutes and hours. She left her ticket on her lap, and silently thanked the soldier for urging the inspector not to wake her. It seemed more than possible that she was going to reach Berlin.

But what then? The most important thing was not to get caught until John was safely out of the country. But how long would that take? A week? Ten days? If she was caught before then and forced to talk, she would say he had taken the train to Danzig, in the hope of finding a ship there. She would never mention Riga.

The train pulled into Stettin Station a few minutes after midnight. There were no leather coats waiting at the end of the platform, or at the entrance to the U-Bahn. The underground train was full of home-going Friday night revellers, all beer breath and sweat, and she relished the rush of clear cold air that hit her as she emerged onto Mullerstrasse. After walking briskly through the blacked-out streets to Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, she opened the doors to the darkened building and flat with the keys they'd almost left behind.

After checking that the blackout curtains were still in place, she turned on a single light and stood there for a moment, gazing at the once-abandoned apartment. It had been less than a week.

She walked into the other room, lay down on the cold bed, and wept.

On the Danzig train, the first inspection of papers and tickets took place at one of the old Polish border crossings. It was past midnight, and most of Russell's fellow passengers were asleep. Being woken made many of them irritable, which made the inspectors even more officious. Russell anxiously waited his turn, heart beating at faster than the usual rate, hands distinctly clammy. He explored the false moustache with his fingers, but couldn't really tell if it was still on straight.

The gun, he suddenly realised, was still in his bag. It was no good to him now - the reverse, in fact, if the men in uniforms started searching luggage. But there was no time to get rid of it.

They arrived at his compartment, two bleary-eyed men in old border police uniforms. One man looked at Russell's papers, then briefly at him, before handing the papers back and passing on to his neighbour. He closed his eyes in gratitude, and only opened them again when both inspectors had moved on.

As the sense of relief faded, the feeling of emptiness returned. He kept reminding himself that it was all for the best, that now Effi had a chance of escaping complicity in his crimes - but it didn't help. He knew he had to make his peace with their separation, had to keep himself focused on what he had to do. There was nothing he could do for her, except get himself out of Germany.

He eventually fell asleep, only to wake up terrified that he had smudged his facial make-up on the upholstery. But none of his fellow passengers were giving him strange looks, and a glance in the toilet mirror was enough to show him that Effi's artistry remained intact. It would soon have to come off, though. Look on the bright side, he told himself - after the last few days he was probably no longer in need of artificial ageing.

It was light outside, and they were running close to the Baltic coast, the wide grey sea sliding almost seamlessly into a wide grey sky. Russell recognised the station at Zoppot as they rattled through, and twenty minutes later the train was pulling to a final halt in re-Germanised Danzig. He hurried off the train, but needn't have bothered - the connecting service for Dirschau and points further east was not leaving for another six hours. Unwilling to risk that amount of time in the station, he crossed the street to the Reichshof Hotel, where he had stayed on his last visit. He was almost at the desk when he realised how stupid he was being, but the receptionist proved unfamiliar. He asked to be woken at twelve-thirty, and walked up to his second-floor room.

Feeling safer with the door locked behind him, he lay down on the bed and tried to take stock of his situation. It stank, was as far as he got.

He was exhausted, but still found it hard to sleep. He felt as if his eyes had just closed when a hand rapped on the door and a child's voice told him it was time to get up. He had a thorough wash for the first time in days, paid for the room, and walked back to the station in search of food. He hadn't felt hungry for a long time, and still didn't, but the weakness in his legs could no longer be ignored.

The train was delayed for another hour, and he had plenty of time to eat what proved a dreadful meal. The station buffet was crowded, with many uniforms visible, but there was no police presence, and no sign of leather coats. Danzig might now be a part of the German Reich, but it seemed a long way from Berlin.

After washing his meal down with a better-than-expected bottle of beer, he stopped at the kiosk for a newspaper. Handing over the pfennigs, he noticed a month-old film magazine which Effi had brought home several weeks before, and which he knew contained a wonderful picture of her. He bought it, walked out onto the platform, and found the relevant page. 'Effi Koenen, star of
Homecoming
', smiled out at him.

He gazed at her for several moments before turning to the newspaper. The German front line in the East was in the process of being 'rationalised', and the Army had a new commander-in-chief. Hitler had sacked Field-Marshal Brauchitsch and taken the job for himself. But, according to the official communique, nothing had really changed: since all the successes of the last few years had 'originated entirely from the spiritual initiative and the genius-like strategy of the Fuhrer himself,' he had, 'in practice, always been leading the German Army.'

In the apartment on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, she woke with a start, wondering for a moment where she was. Then memory kicked in, and she lay there in the darkness for a while, before angrily forcing herself up and into the bathroom. A slight tug of the blackout curtain revealed another grey day.

What was she going to do?

Stay in, she supposed. But not in darkness, not for days on end. That really would drive her mad.

She went into the kitchen, put on the kettle, and did an inventory of the food that they'd left behind. There was enough to last her a week, she thought. Maybe ten days. By then, John should be out of the country.

She would have to keep as quiet as she could, and pray that no one realised she was there. As long as she didn't use any lights, no one would notice that the blackout curtains were half open. If the air raid warning sounded, she would simply ignore it - there was no way she could risk going to the shelter in her unmade-up state.

Once the food was gone, she would need to find some way of getting more. But she could worry about that when the time came.

After reaching Dirschau late in the afternoon, Russell endured another long and anxious wait. The Berlin-Konigsberg express finally arrived around nine. Two inspections and three hours later it reached the old capital of East Prussia, where falling snow was visible in the bright arc lights illuminating the yard. Leaving the train, he could see buildings with lighted windows. There really was a world beyond the blackout.

Riga, it transpired, was still two trains and a day away. The first, which wouldn't be leaving until eight the following morning, would get him to Tilsit, where, according to his old history master, Napoleon and Czar Alexander had met on a floating raft in the River Niemen. The second, a local stopping service, would carry him across the former republics of Lithuania and Latvia, which Hitler and Stalin had doomed between them.

So where to spend the night? Appalling weather conditions further to the east had wreaked havoc on what timetables there were, and filled the station platforms with enough soldiers and civilians to hide the odd fugitive. It seemed safer to stay where he was than wander the unknown streets of Konigsberg, so he found himself a gap in the rows of sprawled-out travellers, and laid himself down on the hard platform with his bag for a pillow. He even managed a few hours' sleep.

When the cold woke him for the last time, light was seeping through the station's glass roof. He went in search of food, and found the buffet well stocked with rolls and coffee. Quality was clearly not an issue, because both were awful.

Back on the platform advertised for the Tilsit service, he saw a train of boxcars slowly approaching the station from the north. As he watched the locomotive steam by, his nose was suddenly assaulted by the stench of human waste. There was a hint of movement in the small openings high on the wagon-sides, and yellow-brown liquid was oozing out from under several doors. The train was leaking urine and excrement.

'Russian prisoners,' a voice said beside him. It was a German army captain. There was disapproval in his tone, and in the slight shake of his head, but he said no more. The train cleared the station, but the smell hung in the air, as if reluctant to disperse.

The officer disappeared up the platform, leaving Russell with no expectation of seeing him again; but half an hour later, just as his train was leaving, the man walked into his otherwise empty compartment. He seemed eager to talk, and Russell, after inventing some relatives as his reason for visiting Riga, was happy to let him do so. The captain had been involved in the Russian campaign since its inception, and was on his way back to the front after a week of compassionate leave.

How were things going, Russell asked him, in as a neutral a tone as possible.

Things were difficult, his companion admitted. Really difficult. But the men had been magnificent. People back home had no idea what it was like, but then how could they?

And the Russians? Russell asked.

'They're not like the French,' was the officer's answer.

Russell tried, ever so gently, to draw out his companion on the future course of the war, but all he got in response were pious expressions of hope. Once the winter was over, then things would become clearer. Once the winter was over, changes would have to be made. Once the winter was over, they would do what had to be done.

The possibility of defeat was there in the man's eyes, in his voice and his evident agitation, but it couldn't be admitted. Not yet.

The officer ended the discussion by saying he needed some sleep, leaving Russell to stare out at the snow-dusted East Prussian fields. Riga, he suddenly remembered, was icebound for at least part of the winter. Surely they hadn't sent him several hundred kilometres in search of a non-existent ship?

When the train reached Tilsit in mid-afternoon he discovered that there was only one daily connection to the old Latvian capital, and it left at seven in the morning. He would have to endure another night on a station platform.

There were worse places to spend one. Stuck on a far-off rim of Hitler's bloated Reich, Tilsit and its station seemed sleepy enough for any fugitive. There was only one limp swastika spoiling the sky, and the uniforms on display all belonged to the Reichsbahn. The only evidence of war was the traffic passing through - supply trains moving in both directions, a hospital train and rakes of empty flatcars travelling west, a troop train full of anxious faces heading for the front.

One particular transport caught Russell's attention. A long line of box cars drawn by an old and wheezing locomotive arrived just before dawn, and spent the next two hours stabled in a siding across from the station. SS guards strode up and down beside it, but a prolonged burst of banging was the only sound that reached across the tracks. Someone hammering on the inside of a door, Russell guessed. When the train clanked into motion, the fist fell silent.

His own much smaller train headed out in the same direction an hour or so later, and was soon rumbling over a long bridge above the Niemen. Another twenty minutes and it reached the frontier of the Reich, where the passengers underwent a surprisingly cursory inspection before travelling on into the newly-established
Reichkommissariat Ostland
. That afternoon, officials manning a checkpoint at the defunct border between Lithuania and Latvia proved considerably more zealous. Russell spent several fraught minutes in the queue, before realising that only the locals were being subjected to the sort of scrutiny that always accompanied one of Hitler's live appearances; Germans like Werner Sasowski were being waved through with a friendly smile. It was like being a white man in Africa.

The train re-started, and was soon threading its way through a large and seemingly uninhabited forest. It finally emerged on the outskirts of Riga. There was snow on the ground here, but only a couple of inches, and the sky was partly clear. As the train slowed on its approach to the station, Russell became aware of suitcases left beyond the adjoining tracks, some neatly stacked, some simply lying in the fallen snow. There were hundreds of them. A thousand, he guessed, remembering Strohm's report of the SS prescription for an ideal transport.