Lehrter Station

Absent fathers

Russell arrived early at his namesake’s Square, and found the mobile canteen. A dozen or so metal tables were spread out across the threadbare grass, and he chose what seemed the most remote. The Imperial Hotel was visible through the trees to his right, but no Dynamos were leaning out of its windows.

The morning papers were full of praise for the Russian tourists. The no-hopers of the previous morning had become ‘the greatest side ever to visit this island, playing football as it was meant to be played.’ Much was made of the Dynamos’ willingness to interchange positions ‘without getting in each other’s way’, a revolutionary tactic which had completely flummoxed their English opponents.

There was other English news of interest — a sweet ration bonus promised for Christmas, and a Parliamentary statement by the Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin which reaffirmed British opposition to increasing the number of Jewish refugees allowed into Palestine. Those already there were striking in protest.

More to the point, there was news from Berlin. Two political rallies had been held on the previous evening, with both attracting audiences of around four thousand. At one, the German Communist leader Wilhelm Pieck had suggested that his party, the KPD, should share a manifesto and electoral pact with their old rivals, the Social Democrat SPD. At the other meeting, the latter’s leader Otto Grotewohl had pledged ‘close collaboration’ between the two parties, and had declared that ‘capitalism no longer existed.’

‘In your dreams,’ Russell murmured to himself. What was Moscow playing at, and how would it affect his own task in Berlin? If Stalin was encouraging the German left to unite around a moderate line, then the Russians could hardly complain about German comrades who pursued a relatively independent path. Half his job description might already be redundant, which would certainly be good news. Though on reflection it seemed probable that the NKVD would still want the information, if only for future use.

The other news from Berlin was dispiriting — the first snow had fallen, of what promised to be a desperate winter. He put the paper aside and glanced at his watch. It was almost eleven o’clock.

There was no one else waiting at the canteen counter, but he felt reluctant to pay for two teas — the NKVD had called this meeting, and they could supply the bloody refreshments.

There had been several tables occupied when he arrived, but now there were only two. A couple of secretaries had their heads bent over a newspaper, and were giggling at something or other, their heads shaking like a pair of maracas. A few feet away from them, a remarkably smug-looking nanny was staring into space, idly rocking the pram parked beside her.

A flash of white hair caught Russell’s attention — Shchepkin was crossing Southampton Row. The Russian was lost from view for several moments, then reappeared inside the park. No one seemed to be following him, but for all Russell knew there were pairs of binoculars trained on them both. Either Nanny was the head of MI5, or she had him hidden in the pram.

Espionage could be dangerous, immoral, even romantic. But it was almost always faintly ridiculous.

Shchepkin smiled as he walked up, and shook Russell’s hand. After wiping the seat with his handkerchief, he sat down and viewed their surroundings.

Why are we meeting here?’ Russell wondered out loud. ‘A bit public, isn’t it? Now the people watching you will be checking up on me.’

Shchepkin smiled. ‘It’s almost as public as a football stadium,’ he observed.

‘Ah, that’s the point, is it?’

‘Of course. If the British tell the Americans about your meetings with us, it will increase your credibility as a double agent.’

Russell followed the thought for a few seconds, then let it go. There seemed all sorts of flaws in the reasoning, but then intelligence people used a different form of logic to ordinary human beings. If indeed logic came into it.

‘Comrade Nemedin is also a football fan,’ Shchepkin added, as if that explained the choice of Stamford Bridge as a meeting place. ‘And Dynamo are the team of the NKVD.’

‘And I expected he wanted to see me in the flesh,’ Russell realised. ‘See what he was getting for his blackmail.’

‘Yes, he did,’ Shchepkin agreed, ignoring the flash of bitterness. ‘Not that he learnt anything from the encounter. He doesn’t understand people like you — or like me, for that matter. People who were there at the beginning, people who knew what it was all for, before the things that mattered were locked away for safekeeping. The Nemedins of this world see themselves as guardians, but they have no real notion of what they’re guarding. They find it hard enough to trust each other, let alone people like us.’

‘Does it matter?’ Russell asked. ‘He’s got me where he wants me, hasn’t he?’

Shchepkin took another look around, as if to reassure himself that no one was within listening distance. ‘Yes, it matters. His lack of understanding makes it easier for us to manipulate him, but his lack of trust will make him extremely sensitive to the possibility of betrayal.’

‘Is that what we’re planning?’ Russell asked with a smile.

‘I hope so,’ Shchepkin said earnestly. ‘I’m right in assuming that you haven’t changed your mind, that you’ll go along with Nemedin’s plan?’

‘I don’t seem to have any choice.’

‘No,’ Shchepkin agreed, ‘not for the moment…’

An ailing bus thundered past them on the nearby road, drowning him out. The windows were still draped with anti-blast netting, Russell noticed.

‘But there’s no future in it,’ Shchepkin went on. ‘Double agents, well, they usually end up betraying themselves. Like jugglers — no matter how good they are, sooner or later their arms get tired.’

Russell gave him a wry smile. ‘You’re not feeling sorry for me, are you?’

‘No. Nor for myself, but we’re both in trouble, and we’re going to need each other’s help to have any chance of getting out of it.’

‘Why are you in so much trouble?’ Russell asked. ‘You never told me why you were arrested last year.’

‘That’s much too long a story. Let’s just say I ended up supporting the wrong people. But I was more careful than most of my friends were, and unlike most of them, I survived. Stalin and his Georgian cronies believe I still have some uses, or I wouldn’t be here, but like you I’m something of a diminishing asset. And like you, I need to get out before it’s too late.’

‘Why not take a boat train?’ Russell suggested flippantly. ‘There’s a whole wide world out there, and I find it hard to believe that a man with your experience couldn’t lose himself if he really tried.’

It was Shchepkin’s turn to smile. ‘I’m sure I could, but there are other people to consider. If I disappeared, my wife and daughter would pay the price. I need a way out which includes them.’

Russell gave the Russian a thoughtful look, and then suggested tea. He needed time to think, and a trip to the counter seemed the only way to get it. Through all the years they’d known each other, Shchepkin had never come close to admitting such disaffection with the regime he served. Why now? Was his recent imprisonment the reason, or was that exactly what Russell was supposed to think?

And did the man take sugar? He put several lumps in each saucer and carried them back to the table.

‘Have you finally lost your faith?’ he asked the Russian in a casual tone, as if they were discussing less weighty matters than the overriding purpose of Shchepkin’s adult existence.

‘You could say that,’ the Russian replied in like manner. ‘You may think that only a fool would have carried on believing in the Soviet Union as long as I did. I sometimes think so myself. But then many intelligent men still trust in far less believable gods.’ He gave Russell a quizzical look. ‘I see you need convincing. Well, let me you tell you when I saw the… I was going to say “light”, but darkness seems more appropriate. It was in October 1940…’

‘When your people handed the German comrades over to the Nazis…’

‘No, that was shameful, but it came a few months later. My moment of truth — believe it or not — came when the leadership decided to abolish scholarships. A less-than-world-shattering measure, you might think, one that killed nobody. But this measure made it impossible for the children of the poor — of the workers and the peasants — to get a higher education, and in doing so it turned the clock back all the way to Tsarism. Almost overnight, power and privilege were hereditary once more. Everyone knew that the sons and daughters of those now in power would automatically take the reins from their parents. We had become what we set out to overthrow.’

‘I didn’t even know such a measure had been passed,’ Russell admitted. He could understand the effect it would have had on someone like Shchepkin.

‘We are going to have to trust each other,’ Shchepkin told him.

‘Okay,’ Russell agreed, convinced at least of the need.

‘In the short run, we can help each other. As long as you’re useful to Nemedin, we’ll both be relatively safe, and I think we can make sure you will be. You must go to the Americans, as Nemedin told you to, but you must also tell them everything. Offer yourself to them as a double agent — I’m sure you can come up with personal motives, but they’ll probably take you whatever you say. They’re desperate for people who know Berlin and Berliners, and they won’t trust you with any important information, not at first. So what do they have to lose? And soon you’ll be able to win them over by getting them stuff they can’t get anywhere else.’

‘And where will I get that from?’ Russell asked. He was beginning to wonder whether all those months in the Lubyanka had weakened Shchepkin’s brain.

‘From me.’

‘You will betray your country?’ Russell half-asked, half-stated. He supposed it had been implicit in all that the Russian had said, but he still found it hard to believe.

‘It doesn’t feel like betrayal,’ Shchepkin told him. ‘When Vladimir Ilyich told us that the Revolution had no country, I believed him.’

‘Okay. So that’s how we survive in the short run. But I’m still the juggler with tiring arms, remember? How do we persuade Stalin to leave me alone, and let you and your family go?’

‘That’s harder. And I can only think of one possibility — we need something on them which trumps everything else. A secret so damaging that we could buy our safety with silence.’

‘Is that all?’ Russell asked sarcastically. He had found himself hoping that Shchepkin had a plan with some chance of success.

‘It won’t be easy,’ the Russian agreed. ‘But we’ll be working for people with secrets, and trading them ourselves — we’ll have to keep our eyes and ears open, follow any thread that looks promising. It may take years, but I can’t see any other way out. Can you?’

‘No,’ Russell admitted. This one didn’t look too promising, but Shchepkin knew his world best, and any hope at all was better than none.

‘Then, let us work together. I will see you in Berlin.’

‘Okay. When do you expect me to start?’

‘As soon as possible. Once you reach Berlin, you will go to the Housing Office at the junction of Neue Konig and Lietzmann. You know where that is?’

‘Of course. But we’re counting our chickens a bit — what if the Americans won’t take me on?’

‘They will. But if by any chance they refuse, then come to our embassy here — I will leave instructions. In the last resort, we will get you there.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Now I must go — our train is at two.’

‘When’s the game — Saturday?’

‘I think so. The football is nothing to do with me — I check the hotels, arrange excursions, look at the police arrangements.’

It was the first time Russell could remember the Russian actually volunteering information about himself. It seemed a good omen.

Shchepkin made to leave, then abruptly turned back. ‘One last thing. I forgot to tell you. Make sure the Americans keep your mutual arrangement from the British — the NKVD have several plants in MI6.’ That bombshell dropped, he walked off across the park without a backward look, leaving Russell to ponder his brave new future. He wished he’d had one of those new-fangled recording machines, so that he could listen to Shchepkin’s reasoning again. Over the years the Russian had never been less than convincing, but Russell knew from bitter experience that some things were always spelt out better than others. What were the hidden catches in this scheme, he wondered. Other, that is, than the obvious one, that he’d need acting lessons from Effi to pull it off.

He decided to visit the American Embassy that afternoon, while he could still remember the script. Working his way through the streets around the British Museum, he wondered whether Shchepkin declaring war on Nemedin was good news or bad. Letting himself get sucked into a war between competing sections of Soviet intelligence seemed, at first glance, like a poor career move. But it might give him room to manoeuvre, play off one against the other. Or give them both a reason to kill him.

After lunch at his usual Corner House, he walked down Oxford Street and turned left at Selfridges. The American Embassy had moved to Grosvenor Square in 1938, and he had visited it several times since, mostly in connection with his own pragmatic adoption of US citizenship. The welcome had seldom been effusive — Americans might, as they sometimes claimed, be the friendliest people on God’s earth, but only when encountered on their home turf.

He opted for the direct approach. ‘I need to see the attache who deals with Intelligence matters,’ he told the young man on reception.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘No.’

‘Then I suggest…’

‘He will want to see me. Tell him John Russell has a proposal for him.’

The man gave him another look, and decided to pass the buck. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, and reached for the telephone. Two minutes later another, younger man descended the stairs, and led Russell back up to a small office half full of cardboard boxes, where he laboriously transcribed every detail from Russell’s US passport. He then stared at the photograph, as if wondering whether he should sketch a rough copy. Apparently deciding against, he told Russell to wait where he was, and stalked off down the corridor.

A quarter hour went by, and then another. It was getting dark outside, and Russell guessed that the Embassy was now closed for the day. A cursory investigation of the cardboard boxes revealed that each was full of Hershey bars. He pocketed a couple for the children, and, after another fifteen minutes had ticked by, a couple more for the adults to share.

The young man returned, looking pleased with himself. ‘Follow me,’ he said.

They traipsed down a corridor, and descended several flights of stairs. The unmarked basement room into which Russell was ushered had no ordinary windows, but a deep ceiling well in one corner offered proof there was still some light outside. The colonel behind the neatly-organised desk looked around forty, and none too pleased to see him. His head was as close to shaved as made no difference, and his face seemed equally short on sympathy. The grey eyes, though, were conspicuously alert. Not a fool, Russell decided.

A folder bearing his own name was lying on the desk.

‘John Russell,’ the colonel said, as if curious to hear how it sounded. His accent was Midwestern.

‘And you are?’ Russell asked.

‘Colonel Lindenberg. The attache who deals with intelligence matters,’ he added wryly. ‘I believe you have a proposal for me.’

‘Yes. I’ve worked for your Government before, and I’d like to do so again. In Berlin.’

‘Yes? Why now? We asked you to work for us in 1942, but you refused. What’s changed your mind?’

Russell considered explaining his earlier refusals and decided there wasn’t any point — the reasons he’d given at the time would be in the file. ‘I think I have a better appreciation now of what the Russians are capable of.’

‘Because of what you saw in Berlin?’

‘That, and what I’ve read and heard about their behaviour in other parts of Europe.’

Lindenberg was looking at the file. ‘The Soviets allowed you to accompany the Red Army into Berlin, and then refused to let you report from there,’ he said, looking up with a smile of disbelief.

‘That’s what happened,’ Russell lied. ‘I tried to tell it the way I’d seen it, and they weren’t having it.’

‘That I can understand. But they let you go, and you’ve written nothing about it since.’

‘That was the deal,’ Russell said with a shrug. ‘My family for my silence.’

‘If the Soviets know you that well, what good would you be to us?’

‘Ah, now we come the interesting part. The Soviets have asked me to work for them, and guess what they want me to do? They want me to offer my services to you.’

Lindenberg smiled at that. ‘Okay, I can understand why they’d want a guy of their own in our organization, but why would they choose a journalist who they’ve just had to gag?’

Had that been a knowing smile, Russell wondered. Did Lindenberg already know of his meeting with the Russians? ‘Several reasons,’ he answered. ‘One, there’s hardly a stampede of applicants for a job like that. Two, they think I’m competent. Three, they know I’m having trouble finding work here, and that I want to go back to Berlin. Four, they know from experience that they can buy me off. What they don’t know is that my family is the only thing I’d sell myself for, and they’ll be safe here in England.’

Lindenberg picked up a pen and started rotating it through the fingers of his right hand. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning,’ he said. ‘You’re telling me that your reason for joining us is a new-found resentment of the Soviets?’

‘I didn’t say it was the only reason. My motives are mixed, like most people’s. I want to do my bit, maybe not so much for the West as for Berlin. It’s my home, and it’s been through hell, and it deserves better than a Russian takeover. And I want to help myself. I want to work as a journalist again, and that’s not going to happen here.’

‘Berlin’s no picnic these days.’

‘I know. But if I’m on your payroll, I won’t have to worry about food and accommodation.’

‘You wouldn’t be living in luxury.’

‘Of course not. But it’s hard to do any job well if you’re spending most of your time huddled round a fire wondering where the next meal’s coming from.’

‘True,’ the colonel conceded. ‘So how do you see yourself being useful? As far as I can tell, your work for us consisted of reporting on the political loyalties of a few Germans and Czechs.’

‘And nearly getting killed in Prague for my pains. I don’t know, is the honest answer. I don’t know what you’ll want from me. But I do know Berlin, and I do know a lot of Berliners, quite a few of whom are probably working for the Soviets by now. And I know the Russians, more’s the pity. I think you’ll find me useful, but if you don’t, you can always dispense with my services.’

‘And all you want is feeding and housing?’

‘I presume you pay your agents.’

‘Ah…’

‘I only want the going rate. I don’t expect to get rich, which is more than you can say for most Americans in Berlin. If you need character references I suggest you contact Joseph Kenyon — I assume he’s still at the Embassy in Moscow — or Al Murchison. He was my boss in 1939.’

‘Murchison’s dead. He was killed in the Pacific.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man.’

‘I didn’t know him.’ Lindenberg’s finger brought his rotating pen to a stop, and gave Russell a thoughtful look. ‘I’ll talk to some people,’ he said. ‘Come back on Monday morning and I’ll give you a yes or no.’

Russell stood and offered his hand, which the American took. ‘Have long have you been in England?’ Russell asked him.

‘Too damn long,’ was the predictable reply.

‘Do you trust Shchepkin?’ Effi asked, after Russell had finished describing his meetings with the Russian and Lindenberg. ‘He was the one who got you into all this.’

‘I don’t trust any of them,’ was Russell’s instinctive response. ‘But if I had to choose between him and Nemedin — and I probably will — it would be Shchepkin every time. He’s still recognisably human.’

‘So we wait,’ Effi said. They were whispering in bed, ears cocked for any indication that Rosa was no longer fast asleep.

‘We wait for the Americans, but whatever they say I’ll be going — the Soviets will still want me there to check up on the comrades.’

‘I’m coming with you.’

The feeling of relief was intense, but did nothing to dispel the accompanying anxiety. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea?’ he asked her.

‘Don’t you want me to?’

‘Of course I do. I just… I just worry. Berlin sounds like hell on earth at the moment, and God knows how difficult the Russians are going to be. At least…’

‘But it can’t be as bad as the last few weeks of the war. They’re not still bombing the place, are they?’

‘No, but…’

‘The only question in my mind is whether or not we take Rosa,’ Effi insisted.

‘Well…’ Russell thought about offering an opinion, and realised two things. One, that he could see advantages to both options, and two, that this was a decision that Effi would — and should — take on her own.

‘The film offer came today,’ she told him. ‘A motorcycle courier brought it.’

‘Did you look through it yet?’

‘A quick look, yes. It’s not the script, just an outline, but there was a list of the people involved. You remember Ernst Dufring? I always liked his work, and apparently he’s back from America. And the storyline seems intelligent — it’s about how the members of one family come to terms with what happened under the Nazis, and the various compromises they have to make as individuals. In fact it’s more than intelligent. It actually sounds worthwhile.’

‘It does, doesn’t it?’ Russell wished he could say the same for what the Russians had planned for him.

‘We need to talk to Zarah and Paul,’ Effi went on.

‘Together or separately?’

‘Together, but without the children. Tomorrow night?’

‘Paul’s out tomorrow. He’s going to see a Bogart film. He didn’t actually say so, but I think he’s going with Solly’s secretary.’

‘No!’ Effi said, almost leaping up in bed.

‘I think so.’

‘That’s wonderful.’

‘Let’s hope. But the family conference will have to wait until Friday.’

The next two days were cold and rainy. Russell went out walking whenever the rain slackened, and read when forced back indoors. No matter how many times he analysed his situation, he came to the same depressing conclusions. And Shchepkin’s hope of eventually getting them out from under seemed more fanciful with each day that passed. It would, Russell thought, take another Russian Revolution to set the two of them free.

When Friday evening came round, and he, Effi, Zarah and Paul were wedged knee-to-knee in the small kitchen, he tried for a more positive presentation. The others knew the background to his current predicament, but he went through it again, from Shchepkin’s knock on his Danzig hotel room door in the early hours of 1939 to Lindenberg’s casual acceptance of his status as an experienced spy. Which he supposed he was — people living ordinary lives didn’t find themselves in illicit possession of Baltic naval dispositions, SS pesticide purchases or atomic research documents. He wished he never had, but there it was. He’d signed up to this long game of consequences, and more would surely follow.

‘So I have to go back,’ he concluded.

‘Have to?’ Paul asked quietly. ‘Couldn’t you — you and Effi and Rosa, at least — move out of their reach? America. Australia even. It’s not as if anything’s holding you here in England.’

Russell shook his head. ‘I doubt there’s anywhere on earth beyond the reach of the NKVD. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for them to turn up.’

‘Neither do I,’ Effi said. ‘I’m going back too.’

‘Why?’ Zarah asked. ‘I mean apart from wanting to be with John?’

‘I’ve been offered a movie as well.’

‘That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,’ Paul said.

‘It isn’t. The Soviets have fixed it up somehow, but the film is being made by Germans, and I know a lot of the people involved. My problem is whether or not to take Rosa. I mean, there’d obviously be practical difficulties — I’ll be on set most of the day, and God knows what our living conditions will be like. But even if most of that could be sorted out, I’d still be taking her out of school, and back to a place full of terrible memories. And if I am going to find out what happened to her father, I’ll need to visit every Jewish refugee centre I can. Which would mean taking her from one dreadful place to another, raising and dashing her hopes over and over again.’

‘You sound like you’ve already made up your mind,’ Zarah said.

‘Perhaps, but I’m ready to be told I’m wrong. What do you think, Paul?’

‘I think she should stay here. As long as Zarah’s happy with that. I’ll do all I can, of course, but unless I give up my job most of the burden will fall on Zarah.’

‘It’s no burden,’ Zarah insisted. ‘If I had to I could manage on my own, and if Paul’s here as well… But I do think you should talk to Rosa,’ she told Effi. ‘Just in case. She’ll be upset, of course, but as long as you make it clear that it’s only for a few weeks, I think she’ll take it in her stride. If I’m wrong, and she gets hysterical, then perhaps you should think again.’

‘I will.’

‘And while you’re there,’ Zarah went on, addressing both of them, ‘can you try and find out what happened to Jens? I think he must be dead, but… well, I can live with the uncertainty, but Lothar… I think he needs to know what happened.’

‘What if he’s alive and we find him?’ Russell asked her.

‘Tell him… oh, I don’t know what to say. I don’t want him back, but Lothar does miss him, and we’ll be all going back eventually, won’t we?’

‘Probably,’ Russell said. It seemed the likeliest option.

‘Then if you see him, tell him Lothar and I are alive, and that when we come back Lothar will want to see him.’

‘Okay.’

‘But I think he’s dead,’ Zarah insisted.

‘If he isn’t, he’s probably in prison,’ Russell said.

‘Yes, of course. Poor Jens.’

Poor Jens, Russell thought. One of the bureaucrats who had organised the deliberate starvation of Soviet cities and Soviet POWs. A mass murderer by any other name. And yet, somehow, ‘poor Jens’ seemed apt.

‘And then, being practical,’ Zarah added, ‘there’s the house in Schmargendorf. If it’s still standing, we should reclaim it. It is ours, after all. Mine, if Jens is dead.’

‘And my flat on Carmerstrasse,’ Effi said. ‘Thank God I only rented the one in Wedding. That’s just rubble now.’ She was, she realised with some surprise, beginning to feel excited at the prospect of seeing Berlin again.

‘And you must try and see Papa and Muti,’ Zarah told her.

‘I’m not sure I want to,’ was Effi’s retort. Both their parents had behaved appallingly when told of Zarah’s ordeal at Soviet hands, and Effi still found it hard to forgive them.

‘We have to try and set things right,’ Zarah told her sternly. ‘They’re old. And they don’t know any better.’

Russell and Effi’s imminent departure cast a shadow across the weekend, which cold wet weather did nothing to dispel. On Saturday morning Effi took Rosa aside, and told her, in as matter-of-fact a manner as she could manage, that she and John were going away for a few weeks. Rosa looked alarmed, but only for a few seconds, and once Effi assured her that Paul, Zarah and Lothar would be staying, the girl seemed almost eager to show how unconcerned she was. She was being brave, Effi realised, and wished with all her heart that there was no need. ‘We can write to each other,’ Effi told her, ‘and perhaps even talk on the telephone. And it won’t be long.’

Russell scoured the newspapers for news of Berlin, but the only stories on offer concerned the Nazis and their offspring. There were pieces on the trial of Hitler’s surviving henchmen in Nuremberg, which was due to open on the coming Tuesday, and what seemed a highly imaginative story about a young girl named Uschi, whom the Fuhrer had allegedly sired with Eva Braun. News of ordinary Germans, and of conditions in Germany, were conspicuous by their absence.

On Monday morning he kept his appointment at the American Embassy, and Lindenberg took him for a stroll round the sunlit Grosvenor Square. It was, the American said, the first blue sky he’d seen in more than a week.

Russell’s offer had been accepted, and a seat on Friday’s boat train provisionally booked.

‘I’ll need two,’ Russell told him, and explained about Effi. He expected objections, but the American seemed pleased that they were going together. Maybe he was a romantic. Or perhaps he thought Effi was a good influence.

‘Okay,’ Lindenberg said. ‘Once you reach Ostend, you’ll take the train to Frankfurt. From there, I don’t know. Maybe a plane into Tempelhof, maybe another train — the Russians keep changing their minds about which routes they want to obstruct. But you’ll be briefed in Frankfurt.’ He gave Russell a name and address. ‘And you can pick up your tickets here on Thursday.’

Russell thought of pointing out that the Soviets employed couriers, but decided against it. He didn’t think Lindenberg had a sense of humour, or at least not where his country and work were concerned.

After they parted, Russell walked west towards Park Lane, and then across Hyde Park towards Kensington Palace Gardens. There were several horsemen exercising their mounts on Rotten Row, and the park seemed chock-full of nannies and their infant charges — the newspapers might decry the government’s lurch towards socialism, but power and privilege seemed less than ruffled.

At the Soviet Embassy he was given ample time to study the prominently placed accounts of Dynamo’s astonishing 10-1 win over Cardiff at the weekend. When the cultural attache finally appeared, Russell informed him that Effi would be accepting the Berlin film role, and that the two of them would be arriving in the German capital towards the end of the week. He also suggested — unnecessarily, from the look on the attache’s face — that Comrade Nemedin should be apprised of this fact.

When Effi met Rosa at the school gates she was still wondering whether to mention the girl’s father, and her own intention of searching for traces once she reached Berlin. In the event, Rosa raised the subject herself. Another child in her class — a Jewish boy from Hungary — had only just heard that his father was still alive, and on his way to England. Which was wonderful, Rosa added, in a tone that almost suggested the opposite.

It took Effi a while to coax out the reason for this contradiction: they were half the way home when the girl stopped and anxiously asked her, ‘If my father comes back, will you still be my mama?’

Wednesday dawned wet and foggy, and though the drizzle soon turned to mist, visibility remained poor. When Russell and Paul took a train from Kentish Town shortly before noon, they were still hoping that conditions would improve, but the world further east was every bit as murky, and they made the long trek up Tottenham High Road expecting disappointment.

The game was still on. The queues were shorter than Russell had expected, but he soon discovered the reason — most of the fans were already inside. The crowd seemed thinner higher up, but as Paul pointed out, the further they were from the action the less they would probably see. Even close to the touchline the opposite grandstand was only a blur.

They squeezed in behind two school truants waving hammer and sickle flags, and sat themselves down on the damp concrete. There were still almost two hours until kick-off. Russell had initially hoped they would talk during the wait, but Paul had come armed with a book, and he was left alone with his newspapers.

The game in prospect got plenty of coverage, and a win was expected from Arsenal, particularly as several ‘guests’ — including Blackpool’s formidable Stanleys, Matthews and Mortensen — had been drafted in for the day. This was an England XI in everything but name, and national pride was clearly at stake.

Away from the back pages, nothing much caught his attention until an item in The Times almost took his breath away. He read the piece twice to be sure, then stared straight ahead for several seconds, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. Over the next six months, six and a half million Germans would be taken from their homes in the eastern regions of the old Reich, and forcibly relocated in the newly shrunken Germany. Six and half million! How were they going to be fed and sheltered? Or weren’t they? Stupid or callous, it beggared belief.

What sort of Germany were he and Effi going back to?

As he sat there, the local brass band began playing on the far side of the pitch. Drifting out of the fog, the tunes sounded even more mournful than usual.

At 1.45 the Dynamos emerged for their strange warm-up ritual. The conditions might be improving, Russell thought — the players on the far touchline were clearly visible, and the welcoming red flags on the West Stand roof occasionally fluttered into view. The Dynamos went back in, more minutes dragged by, before at last the two teams walked out together, the Russians surveying their surroundings with a breezy confidence, the Arsenal players looking grimly introspective.

The latter’s apprehension soon proved justified, the Russians scoring in the very first minute, and threatening another only seconds later. Soon the fog grew denser again, and the opposite stand faded from sight. The furthest players were vague apparitions at best, the linesman’s luminous flag an almost spectral presence. Stanley Matthews was playing on that side, and playing well if the roars from the opposite stand were anything to go by. But there seemed no end-product until the still-visible Dynamo keeper was suddenly seen diving in vain. 1–1.

The play surged from end to end, the action moving in and out of focus as the fog swirled across the pitch. Unlike the last match, the spirit seemed anything but friendly. Tackles were flying in from all directions, one savage lunge theatrically lit by the blaze of a magnesium flash bulb. Arsenal gradually got on top, and as half time approached they scored twice in as many minutes. There was an almost instant reply from the Russians, but Dynamo were still 3–2 down when the teams went in.

Intervals usually lasted five minutes, but this one had stretched to fifteen before the players re-emerged. The fog had thinned during the break, but now thickened with a vengeance, leaving Russell and his son with only the faintest view of Dynamo’s equaliser. They could see that the Arsenal players were livid, but had no idea why. Tempers frayed further, and a fist-fight erupted in the Dynamo penalty area. The referee seemed to send off an Arsenal player, but the man in question just ambled off into a dense patch of fog.

The fog thickened further, until only a quarter of the pitch was visible. Why the game had not been abandoned was anyone’s guess, but there was something highly satisfying about the whole business. It felt almost magical. Glancing sideways, Russell saw a look of utter enchantment on Paul’s face, the same one he’d seen at the boy’s first Hertha game, all those years ago.

Dynamo went ahead with another invisible goal, and Arsenal finally wilted. Much of the crowd was already heading for the exits by this time, but Russell and Paul hung on until the final whistle blew, and the last of the players had been swallowed by the mist.

‘That was incredible,’ Paul said, as they emerged onto the High Road. The buses and trolleybuses were all stuck in the stationary traffic, so they joined the stream heading south, stopping halfway down for a bag of soggy chips.

A train steamed out across the road bridge as they neared the station, and their platform was almost empty when they reached it. Russell expected Paul to pull out his book, but he didn’t. ‘Do you want to go back home?’ he asked his son. ‘Eventually, I mean.’

Paul stared out into the fog for several moments. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I like it here,’ he added almost reluctantly after another long pause, ‘but perhaps that’s only because it’s easier to hide from the past here. I don’t know. What would I do in Berlin? There’s no work there. No paid work anyway. Here I can fill up my day, and earn some money.’ He looked at his father.

‘I’m happy here,’ he said, sounding almost surprised that he was.

‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,’ Russell told him.

Paul smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. Really. I only had one nightmare this last week — did you notice?’

‘Yes,’ Russell said. Effi had pointed it out.

‘It’s like a poison,’ Paul said. ‘It has to work its way out of your system — that’s the way I see it. And you have to let it. But not by pretending that everything’s fine. Do you remember telling me once how important it was to keep your mind and your emotions turned on?’

‘I remember.’ He’d been trying to explain what he’d learnt fighting in the First War.

‘Well I’ve tried to do that, and I think it works. It’s like an antidote.’

Russell winced inside as he thought of the pain his son had been through, was still going through. ‘You don’t think talking helps?’

‘I do talk to people,’ Paul said. ‘Just not the family.’

‘Who then?’ Russell asked, feeling hurt and knowing he shouldn’t be.

‘Solly’s a great listener. And Marisa is too. It would be hard talking to you, Dad. Or to Effi.’

‘I suppose it would,’ Russell conceded reluctantly. He had never been able to talk to his own parents about the trenches.

A train was audible in the distance, and two fuzzy lights soon swam into view. ‘And the talking does help,’ Paul said.

‘Good,’ Russell told him. Crammed inside the suburban carriage compartment for the journey home, he felt a huge sense of relief. He might be going back into hell, but his son was going to be all right.

On Thursday afternoon Russell collected their tickets from Embassy reception, and had a long talk with Solly Bernstein about the sort of freelance articles which the latter would be able to sell, always assuming that Russell could find some way of getting them back to London. According to Solly, no one was interested in the hardships of ordinary Germans, and not many more in the fate of Europe’s surviving Jews. Though there might be some mileage in the growing number of those intent on breaching the British wall around Palestine.

Arriving home around six, Russell walked into a wonderful aroma — Zarah had used all their newly surplus rations for a farewell family dinner. But the cheerful mood seemed forced, and he and Effi were relieved to escape for a few minutes’ packing. There was, in truth, not much to take — they had left Germany with next to nothing, and had bought little in London. ‘I’m sure actresses are supposed to have more clothes than this,’ was Effi’s conclusion as she closed her battered suitcase.

In the morning she walked Rosa to school for the last time. When they said their goodbyes the girl seemed determined not to cry, but Effi’s tears broke down her resistance. Walking back to the flat alone, Effi couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so wretched.

An hour or so later, she and Russell climbed into a taxi and waved goodbye to Zarah. Sitting in the back, they watched London slide by, all the drab buildings and overgrown bombsites, faces still etched by the hardship of war. Berlin, they knew, would be a hundred times worse.

Their boat train left on time, rattling out across the dark grey Thames, and over the long brick viaducts beyond. They might be going home, but they were not returning to anything familiar, and as the misty English countryside slipped past, Russell was assailed by the feeling that, for all their careful calculation, they were simply walking off a cliff, in the hope that some unknown net would catch them.

David Downing

Lehrter Station

Death of a swan

T hat afternoon the Channel was cold and grey, a bitter northerly wind driving everyone off the decks and into the overcrowded seating areas. The passengers were overwhelmingly male, some in uniform, rather more bound for Germany in the civilian dress of an increasingly post-military occupation. Listening to the young soldiers’ banter, Russell was reminded of similar voyages in the years of the First War, and experienced what was, for him, a rare awareness of being English. He hadn’t felt at home in London, and despite all the apprehension and uncertainty surrounding their German future, he still found it hard to regret their departure.

Beside him on the crowded bench, Effi also had mixed feelings. Though still not convinced that she’d been right to leave Rosa behind, she couldn’t escape a sense of satisfaction at the prospect of returning home, even if Berlin was largely in ruins. And, almost despite herself, she felt excited at the prospect of working again. A life spent acting was something she’d taken for granted until 1941, and she had missed it much more than she expected.

Night had fallen by the time they reached Ostend, and their American-supplied papers saw them almost whisked through the entry procedures. Someone at the US Embassy in London had decided that a fictional marriage was the simplest option, and Effi was now travelling as Mrs Russell, with her own American passport. She had initially objected — ‘I’m a German,’ she had told Russell indignantly. ‘Of course you are,’ he had told her with a smile, relieved that she’d been given the potential protection. ‘Someone else’s piece of paper is not going to change that, is it? Think of it as a part, and the passport as a prop.’

Now, seeing the problems that other returning Germans were having, she had to admit the practicality of the arrangement. But she still meant to get a new German passport at the earliest opportunity. The old one had been left in the Carmerstrasse flat when they both fled Berlin in December 1941, and had presumably been scooped up by the Gestapo. If the stories in the British papers could be believed, it had probably been put to use by some fleeing Nazi’s wife or mistress.

Their train was waiting on the other side of the arrivals shed, a long line of wagons-lit which had somehow survived the ravages of the last few years. A two-berth compartment was better than Russell had expected, but the bedding was sparse and there was, as yet, no heating. He tried closing the door, and found it almost cut out the noise of the soldiers in the next carriage. ‘We might even get some sleep,’ he muttered.

‘It’s scary, isn’t it?’ Effi said.

‘What is?’

‘We’re going back but we’re not really going home. When people say they’re going home they usually mean they’re going back to the familiar, the known, and we’re not doing that, are we? We have no idea what we’re letting ourselves in for.’

‘We have some idea. We’re going back to a city in ruins, and we know it’ll be difficult. But we have food and shelter guaranteed, and you have a movie to make. If that falls through, you can always go back to London.’

‘And leave you in Berlin.’

‘I’ll fix it so I get back to London on a regular basis. I can always offer to spy on the English as well.’

‘John!’

‘I know. This is not good. But we’ll get through it somehow. We were in a much worse situation than this four years ago.’

‘That’s not saying much.’

‘True, but we’ll think of something.’ He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

‘I know the flat was crowded, but I loved having everyone around — the children and Zarah and Paul. Didn’t you?’

‘I did, most of the time.’

‘I want a big house in Berlin. Not now, of course, but eventually. Like Thomas’s, with lots of bedrooms and a big garden.’

‘That would be good,’ he agreed, though how they would ever afford one was something else again. He doubted whether double agents and actresses approaching forty were paid that much.

The carriage seemed to be heating up, which suggested an attached locomotive. Russell stepped down onto the platform for a better view, and was promptly told to get back aboard — they were leaving.

The train picked its way through the sparsely lit town and out onto the darkened Flanders plain. Russell waited for it to gather speed, but twenty-five miles an hour seemed the limit of the driver’s ambition. They took to their respective bunks, and Effi was soon sleeping soundly, despite noisy stops in Bruges and Brussels. Russell lay there feeling every kink in the war-worn tracks, and woke with surprise to find light shining through the crack in the curtains.

He climbed down as quietly as he could, and slipped out into the corridor just as the train rattled its way through a succession of points. Through the window he saw gutted buildings stretching into the distance, row upon serrated row. And then, as the train began to slow, Cologne Cathedral loomed above him, barely touched by the calamity which had engulfed the surrounding city. ‘There must be a God,’ he murmured to himself.

‘There must,’ Effi agreed, appearing beside him and taking his arm. In such a sea of debris the cathedral’s survival had all the appearance of a miracle.

In a cleared space beside it, people were laying out items for sale on sheets and blankets. There were household objects of all kinds, and Russell thought he detected the glint of cameras, but there was no sign of food.

The railway bridge across the Rhine was still under reconstruction, and the train could go no further. They joined the scrum on the platform, and followed signs to the pontoon bridge for motor traffic and pedestrians. There was little of the former — only a couple of British Army jeeps — but steady streams of the latter were moving in both directions. A cold wind from the north was rippling the water and the Union Jacks that adorned each bank. The wide river was empty of shipping, and the broken skyline of the city behind them made it hard to believe that hundreds of thousands still called it home.

The morning’s journey did nothing to raise their spirits. Town after town seemed sunk in post-war gloom, many with the same desperate outdoor market, hordes of people glancing glumly up at the passing train as they sought to barter their way out of hunger and cold. The chimneys that were issuing smoke were vastly outnumbered by those that were not.

They reached Frankfurt early in the afternoon, and eventually tracked down the station’s US Army office. A Colonel Merritt should have been waiting for them, but all they found was a captain. The Soviets had been causing trouble, Merritt had been called away, and a Colonel Dallin would now conduct the briefing in Berlin. Russell groaned inwardly — he had known and disliked Dallin during the war, when the Californian had been attached to the American Embassy.

And there were no flights to Berlin, the captain added cheerfully. They would have to continue their journey by train.

There were no sleeping berths on this train, only a motley collection of pre-First War vintage carriages. Groups of GIs were flooding the compartment coach to Russell’s right, and the crates of bottles being ferried aboard suggested a rowdy journey. He went the other way, into a mostly German-populated saloon, and found two rear-facing seats opposite an oldish couple in their sixties. The man wore a pince-nez and clothes that Bismarck would have liked; the woman had an unusually long neck and a face that would once have been beautiful. Neither looked in good health, but she seemed determined to be cheerful. They were going to visit their daughter-in-law and grandchildren, she told them — their son had been killed in Russia. ‘The schools are open again,’ she said with evident satisfaction. ‘I’ve brought the children some apples,’ she added, patting her bag. ‘I don’t suppose they have any fruit in Berlin.’

Her husband didn’t say much, but obviously doted on her. Russell had the feeling that he’d recognised Effi, but was too well-mannered to say anything.

They fell asleep soon after the train got underway, her head sliding slowly down until it rested on his shoulder. This encouraged Effi to arrange herself in similar fashion, and soon she was sleeping too, despite the growing cacophony of drunken voices emanating from the next carriage. Russell tried closing his own eyes, but to no avail.

Shortly after ten they stopped in Gotha, where Red Army soldiers lined a surprisingly well-lit platform. But there was no onboard inspection, and the train was soon moving again. Russell found himself slipping in and out of dozes, awakened by the frequent stops and lulled back to sleep during each brief episode of forward motion. It was almost one in the morning when a just discernible station name told him they were around fifty kilometres from their destination, and only a few minutes later when the train inexplicably slowed to a halt in what looked like the middle of a forest. A flutter of movement in the darkness outside was probably the wind in the trees, but a sudden loud report from back down the train sounded like the slam of an outside door. A passenger across the aisle pressed his shielded eyes up against the window, then turned back to his partner with a shrug of incomprehension.

Was something happening?

Apparently not. The train started moving again, and Russell sank back in his seat, feeling an exaggerated sense of relief. He was still reflecting on all those unexplained little mysteries that punctuate life when the sound of a shot cut across the rhythmic clatter of the wheels. Effi’s head jerked off his shoulder, and the eyes of the old couple opposite were suddenly wide open.

There was shouting in the next carriage now, but no more shots. In their own, some people were halfway to their feet, others almost cringing in their seats. And then a young man with a machine pistol came through the vestibule door, swiftly followed by a boy of about twelve and two other men carrying submachine guns. All four had Slavic faces, and faded patches on two of the jackets bore witness to vanished Foreign Workers badges.

One of the men walked swiftly down the aisle to the door at the other end, disappearing through it for a moment, then returning to stand sentry. While the other man with a submachine-gun held his position at the opposite end, the man with the machine pistol suggested, in heavily Russian-accented German, that the occupants of the first two bays deposit any valuables in the old Reichspost sack that the boy was helpfully holding open.

The operation went remarkably smoothly, once the man with the pistol had clarified what he meant by valuables. Cigarettes, canned food and fresh vegetables joined a few items of jewellery and even fewer watches in the swastika-stencilled sack. Would anyone resist? There were two American officers further down the carriage, but neither seemed armed. Most of the Germans seemed more resigned than angry, as if such robberies were just one more aspect of post-war life that had to be endured.

And what, Russell wondered, was happening elsewhere in the train? Much the same, he assumed, which suggested a gang of considerable size.

The sack was drawing nearer, the Russian with the machine pistol working his way through suitcases and pockets with the sort of professional efficiency that suggested previous experience. The boy looked bored.

Their turn arrived. There was no treasure in the old couple’s suitcase, and only the apples in the bag. The woman stifled a protest as these was taken, but there were tears in her eyes. Feeling Effi stiffen beside him, Russell was suddenly afraid that she’d react as she had in London, and this time get shot for her pains. He leapt up to get their suitcase from the rack, which put him between her and the Russian, and then sought to hold the man’s attention by telling him in his own language that they weren’t carrying any valuables. The Russian disagreed, adding Lord Peter Wimsey and their spare shoes to the bulging sack before demanding Effi’s handbag.

She handed it over, much to Russell’s relief, with no more demur than a contemptuous look. The man removed her vanity case, handed back the bag, and offered a slight bow, as if recognising royalty. She had played a Russian princess once, Russell remembered, so some sort of obeisance was only fitting.

‘Rosa helped me choose that compact,’ Effi angrily hissed in his ear.

‘I know. And she wouldn’t want you getting shot over it.’

The sack moved on. The train rumbled across several bridges in quick succession, and two surprisingly well-lit streets and a straight stretch of dark water briefly showed in the window. The latter had to be the Teltowkanal. Anhalter Station couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes away.

Obviously aware of this, the robbers were working even faster. The train was on the final viaduct approaches when the man standing sentry at the rear vestibule door started down the aisle, waving his weapon to deter any last minute resistance. Turning in his seat, Russell watched all four of them disappear through the door at the other end. There was a silence lasting several moments, then everyone seemed to start talking. But no one left their seat.

The two American soldiers were both grinning, as if they’d just seen an excellent review sketch.

The train was slowing down, and Russell thought he heard gunfire in the distance. He and Effi exchanged questioning looks, but there was no repetition. One of the passengers said something that made the others laugh.

They were drawing into the station, and Russell could see lines of boxcars stabled in the other platforms, some in the process of being unloaded. He remembered reading that the Americans were using Anhalter Station as their main entry point for supplies.

Where were the Russians? He supposed they might have jumped off, but surely the train had been going too fast. They were probably just waiting by the doors, secure in the knowledge that most of their victims would sit tight until they were sure it was safe. The Russians would just step down from the train, load up their sacks on porters’ trolleys, and wheel them down to their getaway lorries. Welcome to Berlin.

The train stopped. A minute went by, and another, without any sounds of commotion outside. In fact people from further down the train were walking past the window, apparently oblivious to any danger. The passengers in their carriage began gathering their things together, and the first brave soul inched his way out of the vestibule door. Russell took their suitcase down again and led the way to the outside world, standing in the doorway for a long moment, listening to the murmurs of conversation, the slap of feet on concrete. Hearing nothing suspicious, he stepped down onto the dimly lit platform. The sky was clear, stars winking down through the skeletal remains of the station roof.

Effi had just joined him when the windows of their carriage exploded inwards, the sound of falling glass chiming through the boom of the offending gun.

Russell dropped to the platform, pulling Effi down after him. ‘Flat as you can,’ he urged her, remembering the sergeant who’d given him the exact same advice twenty-seven years earlier, in a patch of no man’s land a few miles from Ypres.

Raising his eyes, he saw that others had done the same. Most, however, were hopelessly milling.

Another burst of machine gun fire produced screams of pain or alarm.

Who was firing? And at whom?

Feet were pounding towards them, and he did his best to shelter Effi’s body with his own. The owners of the feet ran past, and squinting upwards Russell recognised one of the men from their carriage. The boy was there too, mouth pursed with effort as he hauled the heavy sack along the uneven platform.

There were shouts and whistles, and a last burst of gunfire from those in flight. Russell turned to see the old man from the opposite seat crumple silently to the ground. His wife sank down beside him, and a keening cry seemed to slip from her throat. She raised her head on its long pale neck, and the thought crossed Russell’s mind that swans always mated for life.

‘It was probably the Lehrter Station Gang,’ the American major told them. Once it was safe to do so, they had sought and found his office in what remained of the old ticket hall. As they waited for transport Russell had asked him about the battle on the platform.

‘The what?’ Russell asked. The ‘Lehrter Station Gang’ sounded like something out of a Hollywood Western.

‘They’re mostly Russians,’ the major explained, ‘prisoners who don’t want to go home. They’ve realised that crime pays much better here than real work does back in Russia. Particularly when the chance of getting caught is close to zero. Unlike the police, they’re armed.’

‘Why Lehrter Station?’

‘It’s where the biggest gang is based. Most of the refugees from the east arrive there, and the whole area’s just one big camp. Ideal for hiding out.’

‘Did they get away with anything?’ Russell asked. He hadn’t seen anyone carrying booty.

‘A few thousand cigarettes.’

‘And they kill men for that?’ Effi said disbelievingly. She still felt shocked by what she had witnessed. She had seen death in many forms during the war years, from bodies mangled beyond recognition to bodies lacking only that unmissable spark of life, but she had never seen a man killed, or a woman widowed, at such close quarters.

The major smiled. ‘You must have just got off the boat. Cigarettes are money here. Better than money.’

‘We know,’ Russell said. It was why they were carrying a dozen cartons in their suitcases. But an economy that used cigarettes for currency still took getting used to.

The door opened to admit a US Army corporal, a lanky young man of around twenty with a ready smile and hopeful eyes.

‘Here’s your ride,’ the major said.

On the walk to the jeep the corporal told them that his name was Leacock, that his hometown was Cincinnati, Ohio, and that he’d been in Berlin since July. Despite the late hour and the freezing temperature, he seemed more than happy in his work. After ushering Russell and Effi into the back and piling their suitcases next to his own seat, he turned and asked if they’d like to ‘see some of the sights.’

‘Like what?’ Russell asked.

‘The Ku’damm’s still busy at this time of night. Worth a look, and it’ll only add a few minutes to the ride. And you’d be doing me a favour. I need to pick something up there.’

‘No, I…’ Russell began, but Effi intervened. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said in German.

‘Have you been here before?’ Leacock asked.

‘Once or twice,’ Russell said drily. He had to admit, he was curious himself. ‘Okay, let’s go via the Ku’damm.’

Leacock needed no second bidding, and soon they were circling the vast, rubble-ringed Potsdamer Platz and heading up a wide avenue of perforated buildings towards the southern perimeter of the Tiergarten. ‘We’re in the British zone now,’ Leacock shouted over his shoulder.

‘Are there no checkpoints between the zones?’ Russell asked him, leaning forward.

‘None. Not even with the Russians. There are patrols, and you need to stop when they tell you to, but that’s it. You can go where you like until someone tells otherwise.’

The Tiergarten was shrouded in darkness, but the damage to Lutzowplatz was all too visible — one of Berlin’s loveliest squares, it had been virtually demolished. Tauentzienstrasse had fared slightly better, but here too the familiar landmarks were outnumbered by those that were missing. Beyond the sundered remains of the Memorial Church Russell glimpsed a pile of rubble where the Eden Hotel had stood.

The Ku’damm had been hard-hit too, but life had clearly returned to those buildings still standing. There were lights here, and more traffic, both human and motor. Russell had just registered the survival of the Hotel am Zoo when Leacock swung the jeep across the wide avenue and brought it to a halt outside a nightclub. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, taking the key and vaulting out onto the pavement.

He had only gone a few steps when second thoughts turned him round. ‘You don’t have anything you want trading?’ he asked Russell. ‘Cigarettes, maybe? I’ll get you a good deal.’

Russell shook his head, vaguely amused.

There were three British soldiers smoking by the entrance, and five German women apparently awaiting their attention. A jazz band was playing inside; the music swelling as Leacock opened the door, subsiding as it shut behind him. Russell noticed one of the women slip her hand inside a soldier’s pockets for a casual fondle. The soldier gave her a quick grin, and said something to one of his friends.

The corporal returned, looking less than happy. ‘Goddamn limeys,’ he muttered under his breath as he let in the clutch and almost jumped the jeep back into motion.

They drove past several more flourishing establishments before turning south through Schmargendorf and on into Dahlem, eventually pulling up in a sea of other jeeps beside a large building on Kronprinzenallee. They were, Russell realised, only a ten-minute walk from Thomas’s old home on Vogelsangstrasse.

Leacock led them inside, carrying Effi’s suitcase. ‘Anything you need, come to me,’ he told them en route to the duty office. ‘Any of the drivers will know how to reach me.’

The duty officer checked through his list, and eventually found their names. A bed was waiting two buildings down, in Room 7. They walked the required hundred metres, found their allotted room, and collapsed onto the double bed that virtually filled it. The last thing Russell remembered was wondering whether or not to take off his shoes.

Given all they had heard about the difficulties the Americans were having in supplying their Berlin garrison, breakfast came as a very pleasant surprise. Bacon, eggs, pancakes and drinkable coffee, all in quantities which the average Londoner could only dream about. The staff, they noticed, were mostly German, and almost pitiably eager to please. There was no mistaking who had won the war.

Back at the duty office, another baby-faced lieutenant searched his records for some sign of their military relevance. When Russell explained that he was a journalist, the man suggested that a visit to the Press Camp on nearby Argentinischeallee was in order. ‘They’ll have your ration cards and press credentials there.’

‘What about my wife?’ Russell asked, rather savouring the phrase.

‘What? Ah…’ He examined the document he had just discovered. ‘There’s no mention of a wife here. But a Colonel Dallin wants to see you. Do you know what that’s about?’

‘Yes, but my wife…’

‘I am in Berlin to make film,’ Effi interjected in English.

‘Ah. Well I don’t know about that. Why don’t you both have a coffee while I give someone a call, okay? The canteen’s in the basement.’

‘We were also promised permanent accommodation,’ Russell told him.

‘Okay, leave it with me.’

They did as they were told, returning twenty minutes later to find the officer looking more than a little pleased with himself. ‘You have to report to the Reichskulturkammer at 45 Schluterstrasse,’ he told Effi. ‘It’s in the British zone, off…’

‘I know where it is,’ she said. It was only a short walk from her old apartment.

‘You’ll get your ration card from them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Accommodation… I spoke to someone in Colonel Dallin’s office, and apparently they’ve got something lined up. He’s out somewhere, but they think he’ll be back soon, so if you could just hang on here…’

‘Okay,’ Russell concurred without enthusiasm.

They had been sitting there for more than an hour, reading month-old copies of Stars and Stripes, when Russell had an idea. ‘Are the telephones working — in the city I mean?’ he asked the duty officer.

‘Some are, some aren’t.’

‘Could I try a number?’

‘Sure. Be my guest.’

Russell dialled Thomas’ number, which had worked in April. It still did.

‘Dahlem 367,’ the familiar voice answered.

‘Thomas, it’s John.’

‘What? John? Where are you?’

‘Just down the road. At the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee. Effi’s here too. Are Hanna and Lotte with you?’

‘They’re still in the country. But this is wonderful. Are you coming over?’

‘Of course. I was hoping we could stay with you.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll find some room somewhere. The Americans dumped three other families on me after requisitioning their houses, so it’s a bit… but we’ll find a way, please, come. As soon as you can.’

‘We’ll come now,’ Russell told him. It felt so good to hear Thomas’ voice.

The officer looked surprised, and Russell realised it was the first time he’d spoken German in the man’s presence. ‘We’re not going to wait any longer,’ he said in English. He reached out for one of the man’s pencils and wrote out Thomas’ number. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but if Colonel Dallin can’t wait he can reach me on this.’

‘He won’t be pleased to find you gone.’

‘Tell him how upset I was to miss him,’ Russell said, drawing a smile. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Sundays in Dahlem had never been noted for excitement, but the quiet streets offered a welcome corrective to their nightmare arrival at Anhalter Station. It should have been a cold, clear day, but the sun was muted by hanging dust, the freshness of the air compromised by faint odours of damp, decay and human remains. Russell found himself wondering how many bodies still lay unclaimed beneath the rubble.

Walking beside him, Effi noticed how little the population had changed since April. There were hardly any men on the street, and even fewer children. The only youths they had seen that morning had been begging outside the American mess hall.

Turning off Konigin-Luise-Strasse, they could see Thomas waiting by his gate. He hurried to meet them, engulfing first Effi, then Russell, in ferocious hugs. They had last been together in May, when Russell had bought their releases from the Soviet zone with the atomic documents that he and Varennikov had buried in Thomas’s garden. But Thomas had soon set off for the country home of his parents-in-law, where his wife Hanna and daughter Lotte had been living for almost eighteen months. Since that day Russell had only received one letter, confirming that all were alive and well.

The house looked much the same as in April — in sore need of attention. Thomas looked fit enough, but Russell couldn’t help noticing how much the war — and the death of an only son — had aged his friend.

‘When did you arrive?’ Thomas asked, leading them in through the front door.

‘Late last night,’ Russell said. ‘We arrived at Anhalter Station in the middle of a gun battle.’

Thomas was not surprised. ‘That’s a place to avoid after dark. The occupiers don’t have the men to police the city, and they won’t arm Germans. So…’ He shrugged and continued on into the kitchen-dining room. ‘This is the only communal room,’ he told them, pulling out chairs from under the table. ‘You’ll sleep in my bedroom,’ he added; ‘I can use the camp bed in my study.’

‘We can’t turn you out of your bed,’ Russell protested, knowing full well that his ex-brother-in-law would insist. The Americans might offer better accommodation, but Thomas’s company seemed infinitely preferable.

‘Thank you,’ Effi said.

‘You’re welcome. It’s so good to see you both. How is everyone?’

They gave him the news from London — Paul’s possible romance, Rosa’s excellent reports, Zarah’s flirtation with the man downstairs. ‘It seemed wiser to leave them there,’ Russell said, ‘at least until we knew what was happening here.’

‘That was probably the right thing to do. Hanna wants to come back, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I want them back, but I can’t help feeling they’re better off where they are. And I wouldn’t have any time to spend with them if they were here — if the Soviets aren’t demanding my presence, then the Americans are.’

‘Your printing works are in the Soviet zone,’ Russell guessed.

‘One street away from the boundary line,’ Thomas said bitterly.

‘Ouch.’

‘Ouch indeed.’

‘So who else is living here?’ Effi asked.

Thomas grunted and shook his head. ‘In the living room,’ he began, ticking off one finger, ‘an old couple named Fermaier. They’re decent enough, but in shock — they’ve survived and their family hasn’t. Their son was killed in the Dresden bombing, their daughter by a Russian shell in Schmargendorf. Two grandsons died in Russia. There’s only a granddaughter left, but she’s joined the communist party, and they can’t decide whether to disown her. I tried to reassure them — I told them that my sister was in the Party once — and they gave me sympathetic looks, as if I’d just admitted a family history of mental illness.

‘In Lotte’s room,’ he continued, ticking off a second finger, ‘there’s a younger couple named Schrumpf — about your age. How he survived the war is unknown — a civil servant of some sort I’d guess, and there’s that tell-tale fading of his jacket lapel where the swastika used to be. They don’t go out much, which might be because he doesn’t want anyone to recognise him. Or he just can’t bear seeing what happened to the thousand — year Reich. She wanders round in her dressing-gown at night, like someone auditioning for Hamlet’s ghost.

‘But it’s the couple in Joachim’s old room who give me the most trouble. A mother and her grown-up daughter. They’re not very nice, though perhaps they have cause. They both seem incredibly angry, and I’d guess that the daughter at least was abused by the Russians. But God knows it’s hard to feel any sympathy. They are so…’

Voices were audible in the hall.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Thomas half-whispered.

Two women came into the kitchen, one around fifty with pinched features and hair in a tight bun, the other in her twenties with blonde hair cut short and the sort of face a smile might transform.

‘Frau Niebel. Fraulein…’ Thomas said, getting to his feet. ‘How are you this morning?’

The woman sighed. ‘That woman kept us awake with her sobbing for half of the night,’ she said. ‘Again. She may be a “Victim of Fascism”’ — a heavy hint of sarcasm here — ‘but we ordinary Germans need our sleep. I’ve been to the Re-housing Office, and they have no record of her, so I assume she’s your personal guest…’

‘She is.’

‘Well, can you talk to her?’

‘I can indeed. But her husband is very ill, so she does have something to cry about.’ He gestured towards Russell and Effi. ‘These are old friends, who’ll also be staying for a while, Herr Russell and Fraulein Koenen.’

Russell and Effi got up to shake hands.

‘Have we met before?’ Frau Niebel asked Effi.

‘You’re the actress, aren’t you?’ the daughter said.

‘I am.’

‘Oh,’ her mother said, bewilderment in her eyes. Effi guessed that Frau Niebel was remembering the newspaper pictures from December 1941, and the story that she’d been kidnapped by her English spy of a boyfriend. The woman’s involuntary glance at Russell seemed to confirm as much.

But the woman quickly recovered. ‘We all have our crosses to bear,’ she said, turning back to Thomas. ‘I lost a husband myself, and not that long ago. But some of us bear those crosses in silence.’

Thomas merely nodded, but it proved enough.

‘What a dreadful woman,’ Effi murmured once the door had closed behind her.

‘Indeed,’ Thomas agreed. ‘But you’ll never guess who she was complaining about.’

‘Who?’

‘Esther Rosenfeld.’

‘Miriam’s mother?’ Russell was astonished.

‘No!’ Effi added disbelievingly.

‘The same,’ Thomas told them.

Six years earlier, in the last summer of peace, two Jewish Silesian farmers named Leon and Esther Rosenfeld had put their seventeen year-old daughter Miriam on a train to Berlin, where a job was waiting for her at Thomas’s printing works. Abducted on arrival, the girl had been in terrible emotional and physical shape by the time Russell and Effi tracked her down. A Jewish family in Berlin had offered care and a bed while she recovered, but when Russell travelled back to Silesia with the news of her survival, he had found the farm in ruins, both parents gone. He had, until this moment, assumed they were dead.

Their survival was wonderful news.

‘What’s Esther doing here?’ he wanted to know. ‘Where have she and Leon been all this time?’

‘A long story. That summer, they were threatened, and they decided to flee. They walked across the mountains, which must have been hard, even in August. Leon had an old friend in Pilsen, a Jew, and he had a Czech friend who was willing to shelter them all. They spent the whole war on a farm in Moravia, and when it was over they decided to go back home.’

‘But by then their home was in Poland,’ Russell guessed.

‘Yes. And as we know, an awful lot of Poles share the Nazis’ fondness for the Jews. The family that had taken their land refused point-blank to give it back, and when Leon tried to get official help he was beaten up. Badly as it turned out, though according to Esther they both thought he was well on the way to recovery. They set out for Berlin, partly to look for Miriam, partly because they had nowhere else to go, but by the time they got here Leon was having trouble breathing. The two of them turned up at the works — it was the only address they had in Berlin — and I got him admitted to hospital.’ He smiled wryly. ‘As Frau Niebel pointed out, Victims of Fascism get special treatment these days.’

He gave them a troubled look. ‘I also told them everything I know about Miriam, which was probably a mistake. I wanted them to know that she was alive in September 1939, but of course that entailed explaining why she hadn’t contacted them. Leon took it all very much to heart — quite literally, I’m afraid — and Esther is convinced he won’t recover until he knows what’s happened to her. So I’ve promised to start looking again. Some of the Jewish survivors must know what happened to her.’

Russell sighed. ‘I was going to say “she must be dead,” but that’s what I thought about her parents. Maybe she is alive somewhere. Where would you start to look? We’ve got Rosa’s father to look for.’

‘We can look for Miriam while we look for him,’ Effi interjected. ‘We’ll be looking in the same places, won’t we?’

‘I was actually compiling a list this morning,’ Thomas said. ‘DP camps, of course — there’s probably twenty or more in and around Berlin, some big, some small. Some of the Jews are in camps of their own, but not all of them. It seems the Americans believe they deserve special treatment, while the British think separating them out is too reminiscent of the Nazis. The old hospital on Iranische Strasse where you and Rosa were held is one of them, and there are a couple of others. And then there are the old Jewish neighbourhoods. There are messages pinned wherever you look, telling where people have gone, or asking for news of others. Almost everyone seems to be looking for someone.’

‘We’ll start tomorrow,’ Effi said, looking at Russell. ‘I’ll go to Schluterstrasse in the morning, and meet you both somewhere for lunch.’

‘Not me, I’m afraid,’ Thomas said. ‘I have another meeting with the Russians.’

‘How is business?’ Russell asked.

‘A nightmare,’ Thomas said cheerfully. ‘Living in the American zone, working in the Russian — it’s a recipe for trouble. The Russians brought me plenty of work right from the outset, but most of it was propaganda, which didn’t please the Americans. So they told the Russians that I had a suspect past, and that they’d be bringing me up before a Denazification tribunal. They haven’t yet, but they probably will.’

‘You’re joking,’ Effi said.

‘I wish I was. As you both know, I did cosy up to some pretty disgusting people during the war — it seemed the only way to protect our Jewish staff, not that it worked in the end. If it comes to it, I could probably find some Jewish survivors to testify on my behalf, but what a waste of time and energy that would be.’

And embarrassing, Russell thought. Thomas was not someone who liked to publicise his good deeds.

‘Business has become politics, I’m afraid,’ Thomas concluded. ‘But then I suppose it always was.’

‘How did the Russians reply to the Americans?’ Russell asked.

‘Oh, they wouldn’t care if I turned out to be Hitler’s long-lost brother. They shot all the Nazis they came across in the first few months, and then drew a line under it. Now all they care about is how useful anyone might be. It’s almost refreshing, especially when you see the contortions the Americans are going through. But I shouldn’t complain,’ he added with a sudden smile, ‘most Berliners are having a much worse time than I am. You know what the basic ration card is called? The death card, because it doesn’t give you enough calories to live on. That’s the one everyone in this house has, save me and Esther. I get more for running a business, and Esther for being a ‘Victim’. But we both put what we get in the house kitty, not that you’d think so from Frau Niebel’s attitude.’

‘Well, you’ll have two more for the pot now,’ Effi said.

‘And yours will be the most welcome,’ Thomas told her. ‘Artists get the highest-grade card, thanks to the Russians. What a strange people they are. Their soldiers rape half the women in the city, and then they sponsor an artistic renaissance.’

‘Different Russians,’ Russell told him. ‘Think Beethoven and the storm troopers.’

Thomas laughed. ‘I suppose so. Do you know much about your new film?’ he asked Effi.

‘Not a great deal. It seems well-meaning, which will make a change in itself. I’m hoping there’s a script waiting for me at Schluterstrasse.’

‘And you’re back as a journalist?’ he asked Russell.

‘Yes. Sort of.’

‘The Soviets have come back with the bill?’

‘Yes, but we can talk about that some other time. Esther Rosenfeld isn’t here, is she?’

‘No, she spends her days at the hospital. She usually comes back here to sleep, so you might see her tonight.’ He smiled at them both. ‘Now, how about some lunch? There’s a community canteen on Im Dol where the food’s just about passable. And then we can go for a walk in the Grunewald. Just like old times.’

‘That sounds good,’ Russell said, with rather more enthusiasm than he felt. He had last walked the Grunewald at night, in the company of three Russians. Two had died before dawn, the third a few days later. It would be nice to see the forest again, but ‘just like old times’ seemed a trifle optimistic.

Through lunch and a long stroll through the winter trees, through dinner and drinks at a local restaurant half-full of American officers, the three of them talked and talked, catching each other up on four years spent apart. Their time together in April had been short, and Thomas had only scant knowledge of Effi’s years alone in Berlin and of Russell’s long exile in America and Britain. And they knew next to nothing of Thomas’s long losing battle to save his Jewish workers, or the months he had spent back in uniform.

It wasn’t all reminiscences, but Russell couldn’t help noticing that whenever the future cropped up, their conversation soon slipped backwards, as if the pull of the past was still too strong to escape. Later that night, lying, somewhat guiltily, in Thomas’ unusually comfortable bed, he tried to explain this thought to Effi.

She was ahead of him. ‘In London it felt like people were only thinking of the future, that they wanted to put the war behind them. But it’s not like that here. The fighting’s over, but not the war. That poor girl in Joachim’s room — if she started weeping she’d never stop. The fight we saw at the station, Miriam’s father half-killed by Poles, not to mention the Russians’ plans for you. I know the Nazis are gone, but…’

‘The leaders, maybe. But the small fry are still out there, and from everything Thomas was saying, there’s no real acceptance of what happened here. Most ordinary Germans seem to think that the Allies’ concentration camp films were faked. Maybe a few thousand Jews were killed, but millions? And most of those who do accept it claim that there was no way of knowing, that only a few people were involved.’

Effi sighed. ‘At least no one in our family helped them.’

‘Jens?’

‘Oh, Jens.’

‘We sat at his dinner table, we listened to him explain how hard it was condemning millions of Russians to starvation, and we said nothing because we didn’t want to upset Zarah.’

‘Yes, but…’

‘I spent Hitler’s early years writing stories about schnauzers, for God’s sake.’

‘But you did end up risking your life to expose them.’

‘Only when I had to.’

‘And I made movies for Goebbels,’ she said.

‘And you saved a lot of Jewish lives. We both have reasons for pride and shame, like most Germans. And I don’t blame us or them. When it’s your life or somebody else’s it takes a certain kind of bravery — or foolishness — to deliberately put yourself second. And I feel a lot easier praising those that do put themselves second than condemning those that can’t. I don’t envy the Allies’ judges. Those bastards on trial at Nuremberg may deserve all they get, but they’re special cases. And there are an awful lot of Germans — communists, Jews, homosexuals, victims and resisters of all descriptions — who deserve both praise and sympathy. And between those two extremes there are about sixty million Germans who deserve neither reward nor punishment.’

‘When we were at the restaurant,’ Effi said, ‘I couldn’t help overhearing the conversation at the next table. One man was ranting away about the hypocrisy of the Americans and the British in not trying their own war criminals. I imagine a lot of Germans would agree with him.’

‘So do I,’ Russell admitted. ‘People should end up in the dock for Hiroshima and Dresden and a whole lot else. But they won’t. So we have to ask ourselves — hypocrisy or not, do we want Germany’s crimes to go unpunished? And I have to say, I don’t.’

‘Neither do I,’ Effi agreed. ‘But the condemnation would feel more just if it seemed less partial.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’

‘You know, it seems so strange. Yesterday, today, seeing foreign soldiers in control all over Berlin. They should be, of course they should, but it does feel strange. Imagine how you would feel if Germans were riding up and down Regent Street in their jeeps.’

‘With Italian generals running London’s opera. Yes, I know what you mean.’

She raised herself on an elbow to look him in the face. ‘This is the end of Germany, isn’t it?’

He was surprised. ‘Depends what you mean by Germany. The people won’t disappear. Or the towns or the farms. But the state will probably be divided.’

‘Divided!?’ She didn’t know why, but the thought had never occurred to her. Shrunken, yes, even broken into the old small pieces, but divided?

‘It’ll have to be. There’s no halfway house between free enterprise and the Soviet system — a society has to be one or the other. And since I can’t see either Washington or Moscow conceding the whole country to the other, there’ll have to be partition.’

‘And Berlin?’

‘That’s where it gets interesting. The Soviets will try and force the others out — the city is in the middle of their zone — and who knows how determined the Western allies will prove when the crunch comes.’

‘But they all seemed so chummy at Potsdam.’

‘If they really were, it won’t last.’ He gave her a wry smile. ‘Not the best place to raise a family, eh?’

She smiled back. ‘Oh I don’t know. It won’t be dull.’

Russell laughed. ‘It’s never dull where you are.’

‘What a nice thing to say. These last few months I’ve been afraid you were getting bored with me.’

‘Never.’

‘Well, that’s good. It has been twelve years, you know.’

‘We missed out on three of them, and this is the first time we’ve been alone in a proper bedroom for months.’

‘True.’ Snuggling closer, she felt his response. ‘We’ll have to be quiet,’ she murmured. ‘We wouldn’t want to wake Frau Niebel.’

David Downing

Lehrter Station

A world without cats or birds

R ussell was awake early, and took the opportunity to visit the Press Camp on Argentinischeallee. After picking up his new credentials and ration card, he registered his address and talked to the few journalists who had so far put in an appearance. All were very young, but most seemed to recognise his name, albeit with expressions which ranged from the awestruck to the downright suspicious. Reading between the lines, he gathered that his work was appreciated, but that his murky personal history — his tangled relationships with the Nazis and Soviets in particular — told against him.

Would American Intelligence try to re-burnish his reputation now that he was working for them? He would ask Dallin when he saw him.

Back at their room in Thomas’ house, he found Effi looking every inch the film actress. The dress she’d brought from England had been ironed, and she was wearing heels for the first time in months.

‘You look gorgeous,’ Russell told her. And she did. When they’d met again in April, she’d been so much thinner and paler than he remembered, but several months of British rations had restored her normal weight and colour. She’d let her hair grow past her shoulders again, but refused to disguise the streaks of grey. Now the sparkle was back in the dark brown eyes, the smile as dazzling as ever.

‘I don’t suppose they’ve sent a limousine for me?’ she asked.

‘Surprisingly not.’

‘Well, at least I’ve got you to carry my bag as far as the Ku’damm.’

‘Yes, ma’am. May I ask what’s in it?’

‘A change of clothes. I don’t think I should turn up at the Jewish Hospital in this outfit. Oh, and I met Esther Rosenfeld…’

‘Is she here?’

‘She’s gone already. But she’s hoping to see you this evening.’

‘Good.’

Effi took one last look in the mirror. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked. ‘And where will we meet? I know it sounds silly, but I’d rather not arrive at the Jewish Hospital on my own.’

‘It doesn’t sound silly at all,’ Russell said. In the spring she and Rosa had spent almost a week there under threat of summary execution. ‘I’m going out to Moabit — there’s a DP camp there on Thomas’ list. So let’s meet back at Zoo Station. In the buffet if it’s still there, outside if it isn’t. You choose the time.’

‘Two o’clock?’

‘Okay. But I’m coming with you as far as the Ku’damm. Maybe we can grab a quick coffee.’

‘Just like old times,’ Effi said, echoing Thomas from the previous day.

The roads between Dahlem and the West End were clear, but no trams seemed to be running. Another would-be passenger explained that several stretches of track had been torn up and taken by the Russians in June, and that buses were the only option until the Americans got around to re-laying them. One crowded double-decker eventually arrived, and thirty-five uncomfortable minutes later they found themselves in their old stamping ground at the eastern end of the Ku’damm. Several cafes were open for business, their clientele sitting in coats and mufflers at the outside tables, watching the steam from their coffees coalesce with their own exhalations. It was indeed like old times, but for the facing view, of ruins seen through ruins.

A succession of British jeeps raced by, tiny Union Jacks flapping on their bonnets, soldiers with cigarettes dangling carelessly from their lips at the wheel. When one cast a butt out onto the asphalt, half a dozen children miraculously emerged to contest its possession.

The two of them sipped at the dreadful coffee and ran through Thomas’ list of places to check. It seemed lengthy, but Effi thought a couple of weeks should suffice if they all took a hand. ‘And we might get lucky long before that,’ she added hopefully.

‘We might,’ Russell agreed. ‘Whatever lucky might be. I’m still not sure about this. Do we want to find Rosa’s father?’

Effi looked at him. ‘Yes and no,’ she admitted, ‘but we have to try. You could say that the news will be bad either way — if he’s dead then Rosa’s an orphan, and if he isn’t then we’ll probably lose her. But I’ve decided to look on the bright side — if he’s dead, we get to keep her, and if he isn’t, then she won’t be an orphan.’

Russell smiled. It didn’t seem worth pointing out the flaw in her logic — Rosa might win either way, but only one outcome would give Effi what she wanted. And there was always the chance of worse — if it turned out that Otto had deserted his family to save his own skin, they would still have to give the bastard his daughter back. Sometimes, Russell thought, it paid to leave stones unturned.

Not that he or Effi had ever knowingly done such a thing.

Effi walked the short distance to 45 Schluterstrasse. It was not her first visit — in pre-war days, when the elegant six-storey building had hosted Goebbels’ Reichskulturkammer, she had attended several publicity parties there. The little runt had drooled all over her on one occasion, and one of his lackeys had telephoned her several times a day for almost a week. The calls had only stopped when Russell answered one, and had them both in stitches with his outraged father act.

Better not to mention such things, she thought, as she pushed her way in through the heavy double doors. In the space where the reception desk had been, an old man in a porter’s uniform was sitting on a upright chair.

‘Certification?’ he suggested, as he got to his feet. ‘You’ll…’

‘I’ve come to see Lothar Kuhnert,’ she interrupted him. ‘If he’s here today. He’s expecting me at some point, but if…’

‘He’s here. Third floor, room 17.’ He led her to the apparently functional lift, and pulled back the gate.

The lift lurched into motion, but only rose to the first floor, where a young man with floppy blond hair and round-rimmed glasses joined her. She noticed the jolt of recognition in his eyes, and the barely-veiled hostility which followed. All those years with an agent she didn’t really need, she thought, and now that she might actually need one… A few carefully placed stories in the press extolling her virtues as a heroine of the resistance would surely do the trick. Or maybe not — disloyalty was always frowned on, even if the object was beyond redemption. And the German public would probably still find her screen portrayals more memorable than her real life. The wonder of movies!

As she walked down the third floor corridor, sounds of conversation and laughter behind several closed doors gave her a frisson of pleasure. Something was happening here, some antidote to the deadness outside.

She knocked on the door of Room 17, and received a gruff summons to enter. Inside, a man in his late fifties or early sixties rose from a dustylooking sofa with a smile and outstretched hand. He still had all his hair, but it was almost white, and the face below was deeply lined. ‘Fraulein Koenen, welcome back to Berlin.’

‘Thank you,’ she said.

He moved a pile of papers from an armchair, and made room for them on an already overcrowded desk. ‘Please…’ he said.

She sat down and smiled at him. She didn’t think she’d ever met him, but there was something familiar about his face.

‘We did meet once,’ he said. ‘In this building, in the summer of 1934. August the 6th — I remember the date because that was the day that I quit. I was the original producer for Storm over Berlin, but they didn’t like what I had in mind, and I refused to make the changes they asked for. Someone else took over, of course, but, well…’

It had been Effi’s third film, and her biggest part to date. Her portrayal of the wife of a storm trooper beaten to death by communists had done wonders for her career; when fans approached her in succeeding years it was almost always that role which they remembered.

She looked at Kuhnert, wondering if the producer was expecting some sort of mea culpa.

He wasn’t. ‘I’m aware of your work during the war, your resistance work, I mean.’

‘Oh, how?’

‘I’m a Party member,’ he said, as if that explained it.

If the Soviets were behind the movie, she supposed it did. ‘Is this…’ She hesitated, uncertain how to phrase the question. ‘This film — are the Russians sponsoring it? Or the KPD?’

‘No, no, no,’ he insisted. ‘There are comrades involved — beside myself, I mean — but this is a commercial project. My own company is financing it. And we are based in the British sector. All the outside filming will be done here, only the interiors at Babelsberg.’

‘The studios are still standing?’

‘They were hardly damaged. Although most of the equipment was stolen.’

‘Who by?’

‘Ah, who knows?’ He waved a hand in the air as if to dismiss the matter, which told Effi that the Russians must have been responsible.

‘Who else is involved?’ she asked him. ‘Who’s directing?’

‘We’re still hoping that Ernst Dufring will be available.’

‘Only hoping?’

‘He wants to do it — he really likes the script. And he says he’s keen to work with you. A week ago everything seemed fine, but the British authorities asked him in for a second interview — since we’re based in their sector we need their permission to hire anyone — and now they’re looking into whatever he told them. We don’t know why they called him back — the Americans may have asked them to, or another German may have denounced him. We should know in a few days, and if the news is bad, we’ll just have to go with someone else.’

‘But there is a finished script?’

‘Oh yes. And it’s good. Have you heard of Ute Faeder?’

‘Yes, a long time ago. She had a good reputation.’ Another who had dropped from sight soon after the Nazi takeover.

‘And most of the casting has been done,’ Kuhnert went on. He reeled off a list of names, and all those that Effi recognised were good actors.

‘Do we have a title yet?’ she asked. She knew it was silly, but her films had never felt real until they had a proper title.

‘Nothing definite. “The Man I Shall Kill” is the current favourite.’

‘Mmm. And no date for shooting yet?’

‘No, I’m sorry. It’s frustrating for everyone,’ he went on, correctly interpreting her expression. ‘So many of us have been waiting for this moment, here and in exile, waiting for the chance to start again, to reclaim German cinema, to make it what it was, a world leader. But the obstacles are still enormous. The war’s been over for six months, and not a single film has gone into production.’

‘Why?’

Kuhnert shrugged. ‘No one knows for sure. The Americans are the main problem, and the cynical among us think that Hollywood fears the competition. There’s certainly plenty of their product on show here. But the Americans authorities say it’s all about cleaning up the German industry, that after Goebbels and Promi they have to be sure that anyone with the slightest smudge on their record is banned from working in it.’

‘That sounds a bit unrealistic.’

‘Doesn’t it? And that’s why most people agree with the cynics. Either way, there’s nothing we can do but press ahead, jump through all the hoops they put in front of us, and make sure we’re ready when the time ever comes. And we’re going ahead with some informal rehearsals, starting tomorrow. I’ve got a script for you somewhere.’ He rummaged around in one of the desk drawers and brought out a string-bound manuscript. ‘You’re Lilli, of course.’

‘Will the rehearsals be here?’

‘No, at Dufring’s house in Schmargendorf. Tomorrow’s starts at ten. I’ll write down the address for you,’ he added, reaching for a pen. ‘If you’re desperate for other work in the meantime, the Russians are hiring German actors to dub their own films out at Babelsberg. And there are quite a few theatre companies putting on plays. I could ask around for you.’

‘Thanks, but I’m not desperate. And I have some lost relatives to look for, which will probably take a while.’

‘Okay. Here’s the contract,’ he said, passing it over. ‘I know the money’s terrible, but it’ll be worthless in a few weeks anyway. The ration card is what matters, and yours is the highest grade. You won’t go hungry.’

Effi skimmed her way through the two-sheet contract. Neuefilm, the name of Kuhnert’s production company, rang no bells, but that was hardly surprising. The money was indeed derisory by her past standards, but, as he’d said, the ration card was what mattered. That and the chance to work again.

She borrowed his pen to sign it.

Kuhnert seemed pleased. He reached for a small pile of cards on his desk, riffled through them, and handed her a ration card. Her name and ‘Actor: leading roles’ had been typed in the appropriate spaces. He also passed across two sheets of paper. ‘Here’s Dufring’s address, and this is your certification from the Spruchkammer.’

‘The what?’

‘It’s the committee which examines each artist’s political background, before granting permission to work. It’s based in this building.’

‘Who set it up?’

Kuhnert shrugged. ‘Its own members, initially. But the Russians accepted them, and so did the Western allies when they arrived. No one wants the Nazis back.’

‘Of course not,’ Effi agreed.

‘But you will need clearance from the British. I’m assuming that you never joined the National Socialist Party.’

‘God no, but I was a member of the Reichskulturkammer.’

‘All working actors were — that shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘All right. So where do I go for British clearance?’

‘Oh, upstairs. One floor up. They’re at the back of the building. Just show them the Spruchkammer certificate.’ He offered his hand again, and gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Until tomorrow.’

She decided she rather liked him, and wondered how he’d spent the last ten years. A question for another day.

Up in the British office waiting room, she found herself fourth in the queue, behind three much younger women seeking the conquerors’ permission to work in the arts. None seemed to recognise her, and all were dealt with

quickly, a consequence, she assumed, of the obvious fact that all qualified for the amnesty granted anyone born after 1918.

She unfortunately did not.

The fair-haired English major who interviewed her was either tired, bored or badly hung over — perhaps all three. He did, however, speak perfect German. He gave the Spruchkammer certificate a cursory glance, took down her name and personal details, and then asked for a list of her film and stage credits. Having completed this, he reached for what looked like a prescribed set of questions. ‘Were you ever a member of the National Socialist Party?’ he began, finally making eye contact. ‘No.’

‘Were you a member of the Reichskulturkammer?’

‘Yes, everyone was.’

‘Not everyone. Some of your colleagues went into exile. Others stopped working.’

There was no satisfactory answer to that, or none that would sound so after all that had happened in the last twelve years.

He laid an accusatory finger on her list of credits. ‘And these,’ he went on in the same self-righteous tone, ‘were all Nazi productions.’

He couldn’t be that naive, she thought. ‘They were produced by different companies, all of them licensed by Promi.’

‘The Nazi Propaganda Ministry.’

‘Yes.’

‘So they were Nazi productions. And to all intents and purposes, Nazi propaganda?’

‘Some were pro-Nazi, some had nothing to do with politics.’

‘And how many were anti-Nazi? Or spoke out against the persecution of the Jews?’

‘None.’ She felt like asking him how many pre-war British or American films had taken their governments to task, but decided against it.

He looked at the list again, and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing after 1941,’ he noticed.

‘My… my boyfriend is an English journalist. He got in trouble with the Gestapo — it was just before the Americans came into the war — anyway, he had to flee the country. I was going to leave with him, but in the end I didn’t. He escaped to Sweden, and I stayed in Berlin, in hiding, for the rest of the war.’

The major looked vaguely interested for the first time. ‘His name?’

‘John Russell. We were living in London until three days ago.’

He wrote something down. ‘So you didn’t work again after 1941.’

He wasn’t so much naive as stupid, she thought. ‘Of course not,’ she said with as little asperity as she could muster.

‘So how did you support yourself?’

‘I still had some money hidden away. I had help from my sister. And I was part of a resistance network.’

‘So many people were,’ he said wryly.

‘Have I done something to make you dislike me?’ Effi asked him.

He ignored the question, but she detected a slight colouring in his cheeks. ‘Do you have any proof of your involvement in resistance activities?’ he asked.

‘Not with me, no. I worked with Erik Aslund, the Swedish diplomat, and I imagine you could reach him through your embassy in Stockholm. Some of the Jews I helped to escape may have returned to Berlin, but I assume most of them will never want to see the place again. Do you want names?’

‘That won’t be necessary. Not yet, at least.’ He looked up at her, and the first hint of uncertainty crossed his face, taking several years off his age. It was only a moment; the mask of boredom soon slipped back into place. ‘You will be contacted when our investigation is complete,’ he told her, ‘or if we need to ask you further questions.’

She nodded, rose, and walked out through the waiting room, feeling more dejected than angry. After all they had been through…

She stopped at the head of the stairs and admonished herself. After all they had been through, things should be difficult.

Walking down, she heard more laughter and conversation, and what sounded like the clatter of crockery. Advancing down a likely-looking corridor she found herself outside a small cafeteria. The menu was limited to hot soup and drinks, but there was no shortage of customers, and several tables were hosting intense discussions, each ring of heads crowned by a halo of expensive cigarette smoke. She didn’t recognise any of the faces.

Effi used her new ration card to procure a cup of tea, and took an empty seat in the corner. Most people there were old enough to recognise her, but the woman who actually approached her was one of the youngest, slightly-built, with dark hair, prominent eyebrows and a very sweet smile.

‘You’re Effi Koenen, aren’t you?’ she asked in almost a whisper, as if she doubted whether Effi wanted her identity known.

‘I am.’

‘I remember your picture from the newspapers, when the police said you’d been kidnapped. And later you helped a friend of mine — another Jew. My name is Ellen, by the way. Ellen Grynszpan. My friend loved movies, and she recognised you, but she never told anyone who you really were, not until after the war, when she came back from Sweden. Inge Lewinsky — do you remember her?’

The name was unfamiliar. ‘No, I’m sorry. There were a lot of people. But please, join me.’

Ellen took a seat. ‘I just wanted to thank you. For my friend. And all the others, of course.’

Effi shook her head. ‘I didn’t have much to lose,’ she said. ‘How about you? How did you survive?’

‘Oh, I had an easy time of it. A Christian friend took me in and, well, I could never go out, but apart from that… it was like being in a really comfortable prison. I’m a painter, and I could paint, so I was happy most of the time.’

‘And now?’

‘I’m still painting, but I was persuaded to organise the exhibition here.’

‘I didn’t know there was one.’

‘Oh, it’s in the basement. It’s the Berlin Jewish community’s collection of paintings.’

‘Paintings by Jewish artists?’

‘Only a few of them are actually painted by Jews. Most of the richer patrons were more interested in a sound investment than racial provenance.’

Effi laughed. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Would you like to come down and have a look?’

Effi looked her watch. It might make her late, but Russell was used to that. ‘I’d love to.’

The basement gallery was empty of people, but the paintings were welllit, the room surprisingly warm. There seemed no coherent theme to the collection, and only the sign on the door offered any connection between the paintings on display and a particular community. There were landscapes, still-lifes, portraits of people and cats. The one exhibit which brought Jews to mind was a futuristic painting of a famous Berlin department store, and only because prominent Jews had owned it. If someone had told Effi that all the paintings were German, she would have taken their word for it.

And that, she supposed, was the point.

‘They’re not that good, are they?’ Ellen said.

‘They’re not bad. I suppose the fact that they’re here is what matters.’

‘Exactly.’

They both gazed at a Cubist rendition of the Memorial Church. ‘Have any of the synagogues re-opened?’ Effi asked.

‘Oh, at least two. There’s one out in Weissensee and one in Charlottenburg. And someone told me they’re using part of the one on Rykestrasse to house Jewish refugees from Poland. Why do you ask?’

‘I don’t know. Like buds in the spring, I suppose. Signs of life returning — something like that. But I am looking for two Jews, and if the synagogues are housing refugees I shall need to visit them.’

‘Who are the people you’re looking for?’

‘Their names are Otto Pappenheim and Miriam Rosenfeld.’

Ellen searched her memory, but came up empty. ‘Sorry, no. But I can ask around. If I hear anything I’ll leave you a message on the board outside the canteen.’

They walked back up to the lobby, and stood in silence for several moments, looking out through the open doorway at the mountain of rubble beyond. ‘Do you think many of the survivors will want to stay here?’ Effi asked. ‘The Jewish survivors, I mean.’

‘I don’t know. Some will, but most would rather go to America. Or Palestine, if the British weren’t making it so difficult.’

‘And you?’

‘I haven’t decided yet.’

And neither have I, Effi thought, as she walked back up to the Ku’damm. Her interviews with Kuhnert and the British Major had been more than a little depressing, but Ellen and the crowd in the cafeteria had lifted her spirits. And if Berlin could be resurrected, there was nowhere else she would rather be.

After leaving Effi, Russell walked east along the rapidly wakening Ku’damm and up Joachimstaler Strasse to Zoo Station. The first DP camp he intended visiting was in Moabit, a walkable distance to the north, but laziness and the sight of a local train rumbling west across the Hardenbergstrasse bridge persuaded him to make use of the Stadtbahn. Walking up to the platform he noticed that most of the signs were also in Russian.

The next train was tightly packed, its passengers almost bursting out through the opening doors. Shoving his way on board, Russell found himself standing with his face almost pressed to the glass, and forced to confront Berlin’s ruin. The gouged and pitted flak towers were still there, and beyond them the deforested Tiergarten, a sea of stumps in which small islands of cultivation were now sprouting.

The air on the train offered stark proof of the continuing soap shortage, and once decanted on the Bellevue platform, Russell took several deep breaths of purer air. It was all relative, of course, and his nose was soon under renewed assault, this time from the River Spree. There were no floating bodies as far as he could see, but the scum floating on the stagnant surface was an uncomfortable melange of yellows and browns, and the smell rising up was suitably disgusting. The bridge he had intended to cross lay broken in the water.

A passer-by told him that the next one up was open, but that proved something of an exaggeration — a makeshift wooden walkway offered pedestrian access to the other bank, but the original bridge was still in the river. He crossed and continued northwards, down a street still lined with piles of broken masonry. A team of women was stacking bricks — die Trummerfrauen, Thomas had called them, ‘the rubble women’ — their breath forming plumes in the cold morning air.

It was time he got to work, Russell thought. Tomorrow he would spend some time at the Press Camp, talk to his fellow journalists, get the lay of the land. The occupiers would be imposing restrictions on reporting, but he had no idea what they were, or whether the different occupation authorities had different rules. And the current mechanics of sending out copy were also a mystery. With civil communications in tatters, were they using military channels?

All of which would sort itself out soon enough. But what was he going to write about? The story that interested him, but apparently not many others, was what had happened to the Jewish survivors. It seemed as if the Nazi crimes against the Jews were still being undersold, almost lost in the general shuffle of European misery. Perhaps he was still seeking atonement for 1942, when he’d been unable to get the story the prominence and urgency it deserved, but he didn’t think so. Over the last few months all four occupation powers had forced Jewish refugees to share camps with their persecutors, but there’d been no cries of outrage, or none from anyone with the power to make changes.

His and Effi’s search for Rosa’s father would make a good story, or provide a good narrative on which to hang the wider theme. He would have to change the names, of course — Rosa had traumas enough to work through without becoming a poster child for orphans.

And then there was Miriam. It would really be a miracle if she was still alive.

He had reached the southern edge of the Little Tiergarten, which looked in no better shape than its bigger brother. He walked diagonally across the bare expanse, past a scorched and trackless Tiger tank with the words ‘Siberia or Death’ still emblazoned on one side. Two children eyed him warily from the open turret, and he wondered if the tank was only a place to play, or what they now called home.

As he passed the cemetery behind the old municipal baths he noticed several long lines of freshly dug graves, and what looked like a team of prisoners digging more. It was several seconds before he realised who they were probably meant for — the victims of the coming winter.

The old barracks loomed in front of him. There was a wall around the compound and British soldiers at the gate, who checked his papers and gave him directions for the camp administration office. En route, he noticed that one barracks door was slightly open, and took a quick look inside. The large open space had been divided up by the simple expedient of using lockers to form waist-high walls, inside which double-decker bunks were arranged in squares, enclosing a small private space. The barracks were cold and surprisingly quiet, a fact that Russell first attributed to a lack of residents. But as his eyes grew used to the gloom he realised that almost every bunk had one or more silent owner. The sense of hopelessness was almost overwhelming.

He continued on to the office, where three young Englishmen were lording it over three elderly German assistants. Once Russell had explained the reason for his visit, a sergeant with a Yorkshire accent interrupted his game of patience to instruct one of the latter, who reached for the pile of exercise books that contained the camp records, and began working his way through them. He was halfway through the last but one when he found an Otto Pappenheim.

Russell could hardly believe it. Nor did he really want to — he knew what losing Rosa would mean to Effi. As the German checked the final book for Miriam Rosenfeld, he reminded himself that Otto and Pappenheim were both fairly common names.

‘Can you tell me anything about him?’ Russell asked the man in German, once the search for Miriam had ended in failure.

‘No, but maybe Gerd can. Wait a minute.’ He walked stiffly across to the doorway of the adjoining room and asked a colleague to join them.

Gerd, a wafer-thin man in his sixties, was still wearing his Volkssturm jacket, albeit without the insignia. When he heard the name ‘Otto Pappenheim’ he made a face, which worried Russell even more. ‘Yes, I remember him,’ he said. ‘He turned up in the summer, the beginning of August, I think. He had his Jewish identity card, which was unusual — most destroyed them when they went into hiding. I didn’t like him, but I couldn’t really tell you why. He didn’t stay long. He soon found a job and somewhere else to live, which was also unusual, but we can always use the extra bed.’

‘So you don’t know where he went?’

‘Oh, he had to give us an address, or his ration card wouldn’t have been re-issued. It’ll be in there,’ he added, pointing out one of his colleague’s desk drawers. And it was, Solinger Strasse 47. ‘That’s not far from here,’ the first German told him. ‘It’s one of the streets off Levetzowstrasse. On the south side.’

Fifteen minutes later, Russell was walking down Solinger Strasse, trying to deduce which of the still-standing buildings was number 47. An elderly man sitting in a doorway pointed it out. ‘The one at the end,’ he said, ‘thanks to the Reichsmarschal.’ Russell saw what he meant — the original end of the block had been destroyed by Allied bombers, which Goering had famously promised would never reach Berlin. Now a wall boasting seven empty grates and seven different wallpapers rose towards the sky.

A woman he met in the lobby gave him Otto Pappenheim’s room number. Rather reluctantly, Russell thought, as if she wanted nothing to do with Otto, or anyone looking for him.

Russell climbed three storeys, and knocked on the appropriate door. There were no sounds of life within, either then or after a second hammering, but another woman emerged from a flat across the landing. ‘He’s hardly ever there,’ she told Russell in response to his question. She had no idea where Otto worked, if indeed he did, but he only used the room for sleeping. ‘He’s a Jew,’ she added with barely concealed disgust. ‘That’s how he got the flat.’

Back out on the street, Russell started walking towards the river. He wouldn’t tell Effi, he decided, not till he knew whether this was the Otto they sought.

He was ten minutes late reaching Zoo Station, but there was no sign of Effi in the crowded buffet. He went back out for a newspaper — the American-produced Allgemeine Zeitung looked more promising than the British Der Berliner — and scanned the front page while he queued for a cup of tea. The main story was the communists’ humiliating defeat in the previous weekend’s Austrian elections, a result that the editorial attributed to the Russians’ behaviour back in the spring. Given that the Russians had behaved ten times worse in Berlin, Russell wondered what the Soviets would deduce from this setback. And what lesson would the German communists take from it? A need to distance themselves from their allies and sponsors? He was beginning to appreciate the importance of the task that Nemedin and Shchepkin had given him — testing the loyalty of the German comrades. And they would not be happy if he kept them waiting. Tomorrow he would follow Shchepkin’s instructions and present himself at the Housing Office on Neue Konigstrasse.

Effi swept in, still in her glamorous outfit, causing more than a few heads to turn.

She looked more animated than she had for a while, Russell thought.

‘I forgot to change at Schluterstrasse,’ she announced, ‘and the station toilets are “closed for refurbishment”. I’ll have to ask here.’

She was back in five minutes, looking more like an ordinary citizen, and the two of them made their way down to the U-Bahn platforms. ‘Remember taxis?’ Effi murmured wistfully, after they’d waited twenty minutes for an eastbound train.

One eventually arrived, and they squeezed aboard a crowded carriage. The smell of unwashed bodies was bad enough, and Russell dreaded to think what it would have been like if half the windows hadn’t been broken.

They changed at Friedrichstrasse, and this time a train came quickly. The lifts weren’t working at Leopoldplatz, and the long ascent to the booking hall left them both short of breath. Outside on Mullerstrasse the usual broken facades stretched away in both directions, a single double-decker bus the only thing moving on the once-busy boulevard. The tricolour fluttering above one of the surviving buildings told them they were now in the French sector.

They started up the long Schulstrasse, and were soon passing one of the recently reopened schools. Several of the rooms were still unfit for occupation, but teachers and children were working in the others, and the view through the few unboarded windows was almost surreal in its ordinariness.

The local dogs seemed more in tune with their surroundings. There seemed an awful lot of them, each staring angrily out from his own small patch of ruin. Humans had destroyed their homes, cut off their food supply, and left them nothing to do but snarl at passers-by. Several started slowly towards Russell and Effi, but were easily deterred by the miming of a thrown stone. Most looked too weak to sustain an attack.

At least they were alive, Russell thought. He hadn’t seen a single cat since their return. Or a bird.

A sudden ear-splitting roar sounded overhead, causing them both to jump. It was an American Dakota, flying just above the few remaining rooftops, and presumably headed for Tempelhof. Russell wondered why it was flying so low. Because the pilot enjoyed scaring Germans?

Turning to Effi, he saw momentary panic in her eyes, beads of sweat breaking out on her forehead. He found himself wondering whether those Berliners who had survived the years of bombing would ever hear a plane without flinching.

He took her in his arms, and she let out a couple of sobs. For the first time, he fully appreciated how hard all this must be for her, and how extreme her emotional reactions might be. And most of their fellow Berliners would be riding the same emotional see-saw, he thought. A city full of unexploded bombs, in more ways than one.

‘I’m okay,’ she said at last.

‘Are you sure you want to do this today?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. What idiot said that?’ She was looking back down the street, remembering the view through the barred window of the Black Maria that had brought Rosa from the Frankfurter Allee police station.

Russell laughed and took her arm.

A few minutes later they reached the iron archway entrance. It was unguarded. Passing through, they found the rooms of the old Pathology Department deserted. ‘This is where we slept,’ Effi told him, pointing out a corner of the first one. It was empty, save for a table with two broken legs which seemed to be kneeling in the middle of the floor. ‘And that’s where Dobberke signed our release certificates,’ she added, gesturing towards it.

When Russell glanced at her, she was angrily wiping tears from her eyes.

‘I’m okay,’ she said again. ‘Can you see anything out of those windows?’ she asked, pointing to the row on one side.

Raising himself on tiptoe, he reported movement in the distance.

‘That’s the main hospital,’ she explained. ‘All the half-and quarter-Jews lived there. There’s a connecting tunnel.’

This had been guarded in April, but now stretched emptily away, lit only by a fortuitous rent in its ceiling almost halfway down. A ladder leant against the rim of the opening, and Russell had a mental picture of Nazi guards slipping out into the Berlin darkness as Russian troops stormed the main entrance.

At the far end of the tunnel, they emerged into a different world, one that was tidy, well-lit and obviously populated. After passing a couple of almost empty dormitories, they climbed the stairs to the ground floor. Here, they found rooms where people were sitting and reading, and one with rows of desks that was clearly in use as a classroom. The first person they asked for directions shrugged and offered a few words in Yiddish, the second informed them in Polish-accented German that the offices were on the next floor. Halfway up the stairs a rabbi passed them on his way down.

In the administration office a young woman was laboriously pushing down keys on an antique-looking typewriter. She smiled up at them, revealing warm brown eyes, and seemed relieved to abandon the task. At Russell’s request she explained the current set-up. The hospital was run by an ad hoc committee, which had representatives from all the parties involved. There were reps from the American Jewish organisations, and from international refugee organisations like UNRRA and the Red Cross; there were members of the hospital staff and, of course, liaison officers from the French garrison. New refugees were arriving all the time: survivors of the camps, returnees from voluntary exile, people who’d spent the last few years hiding in barns or cellars or garden sheds. There were ex-partisan fighters, who’d made their way west across Poland from the Russian and Lithuanian forests. The hospital fed, clothed and sheltered them all, and did its best to help each individual reach his or her destination of choice. In most cases this was the American Occupation Zone beyond the Elbe, where purely Jewish DP camps were now up and running, staging posts en route to the promised lands of Palestine and America.

In the meantime the refugees waited, and often for a great deal longer than they wanted to. But at least they were waiting for something better, and the mood was generally good.

Effi asked the woman whether records were kept of all who passed through.

‘Of course. Who are you looking for?’

Effi gave her the names, and watched as she worked her way through the relevant boxes of index cards. The woman was a Berliner from her accent, no more than twenty-five, and almost certainly Jewish. Her whole adult life would have been shot through with fear, Russell thought, but there was nothing downcast about her, no apparent edge of bitterness or well of grief. On the contrary, she seemed full of life. Someone looking forward rather than back.

‘No, I’m sorry,’ she said, coming back to her desk. ‘The only Pappenheim is Greta, and all three Rosenfelds are men. Where else have you looked?’

Effi explained that they’d only just started on their list of possible locations, whereupon the woman insisted on comparing that list with another, which one of the American Jewish organisations had compiled. Three more sites were identified, one of them a recently opened agricultural training camp for Zionists.

They were crossing the downstairs lobby when a familiar face came in through the main doors. Effi had met and befriended Johanna — she had never learnt her surname — during her and Rosa’s week-long confinement in the Pathology department, but once Dobberke had signed their releases Johanna had opted to spend the last few days of the war where she was, rather than risk the streets outside. Now a huge smile engulfed her face, and she enfolded Effi in a fierce hug. ‘Where have you been? I’ve often wondered what happened to you when you left. You and Rosa.’

‘You’re looking well,’ Effi said, and Johanna was. In April she’d been painfully thin, but in her case the ‘Victim of Fascism’ ration card was obviously serving its intended purpose — she looked several stones heavier and ten years younger. ‘We ended up in the Potsdam Station,’ Effi said. ‘It was a nightmare. We should have stayed here with you and Nina.’

Johanna’s smile disappeared. ‘No, you made the right decision. You remember — Nina thought the Russians would behave themselves because we were Jews and because there were so many of us. She couldn’t have been more wrong. I got off quite lightly, but Nina was young and pretty and…’ Johanna sighed. ‘Well, she killed herself…’

Effi closed her eyes for a few seconds.

‘But is Rosa all right?’ Johanna asked anxiously.

‘She’s fine. She’s in England, in London. Which is where we were until last week. This is John, by the way. I must have told you about him.’

‘Yes, you did.’ She gave Russell a knowing look, then turned back to Effi. ‘I met another friend of yours a couple of months ago,’ she told Effi. ‘I work in the hospital, but I was in the office when she came looking for you. Her name was Ali something…’

‘Ali Blumenthal!’ Ali was the daughter of two Jews whom Russell and Effi had befriended in the first years of the war. They had agreed to ‘resettlement’ in the East, but Ali, like Effi, had opted for an underground existence. When they ran into each other in 1942, Ali had put Effi in touch with the identity forger Schonhaus, which had probably saved her life. She and Ali had shared a flat, a business and a life of resistance for most of the next three years.

‘Yes, that was the name,’ Johanna confirmed. ‘I told her I’d met you in April, and she told me who you really were. I was surprised, I can tell you. I must have seen some of your films, but I never recognised you.’

‘Did Ali leave an address?’

‘Not here, but most people leave their contact details on the boards outside. Come, I’ll show you where.’

They walked out onto Iranische Strasse, where a line of boarded-up windows were plastered with scraps of paper and card, some neatly cut and printed, others simple scrawls on scraps. It was Effi who recognised Ali’s elegant handwriting. ‘Hufelandstrasse 27,’ she said excitedly. ‘In Wilmersdorf. I think I know where that is. We must go there.’

Russell smiled. ‘Of course.’

Effi thanked Johanna, and gave her Thomas’s address. ‘Wherever we eventually end up living, he’ll know.’

Johanna was reluctant to let them go. ‘Remember how we all agreed to meet on August 1st, in the Zoo Cafeteria. Well, I went to the Zoo, but there was no sign of you and Rosa, and no cafeteria. I wasn’t surprised, but…’

‘Rosa remembered,’ Effi told her. ‘She was upset. But we were in England, and even if we’d known where you were, we had no way of making contact.’ ‘I’m glad you both made it.’

‘And you,’ Effi said with feeling. With so many gone, each survivor seemed doubly precious.

Before the war the trip would have taken forty minutes, but more than two hours had passed when they finally reached Ali’s apartment building. Hufelandstrasse seemed almost untouched by the war, as if some higher power had intervened to protect its residents from the bombs and shells that rained down on the neighbouring streets.

Ali herself opened the apartment door, and let out a whoop of pure delight when she saw who it was. The two women threw themselves into each other’s arms, and shared an excited hug, their feet almost dancing as they twirled each other round. The young man behind Ali smiled and shook his head.

‘This is my husband Fritz,’ she told them. ‘And this is Effi,’ she told him.

‘I thought it might be,’ he said with a grin.

‘And Herr Russell,’ Ali said, giving him a hug too. They hadn’t seen each other since 1941, when she was still living with her parents. In those days she had worn her dark hair long — now it barely reached her shoulder.

She ushered them into a large and cosy living room. There were two desks with typewriters, books and newspapers everywhere. ‘So everything turned out for the best,’ Ali said, still smiling. ‘You always said it would.’

Effi sighed. ‘I did, didn’t I?’ It sounded like a strange thing to say in November 1945, but she knew what Ali meant.

‘Look,’ Ali said, ‘we have a meeting to go to soon, but can you come for dinner tomorrow? Where are you living? Where have you been all this time?’

She looked terrific, Effi thought. ‘England,’ she said. ‘We only just got back. We’re staying at our friend Thomas’s house in Dahlem. It’s not that far from here. What have you been doing? How did you get this flat?’

‘Oh, the flat’s part of the guilt package. We Jews get priority now. It used to belong to a Nazi official, and he’s either dead or in a camp…’

‘Or in South America,’ Fritz added wryly.

‘Whatever. We burned his books,’ she added with a giggle. ‘He had three copies of Mein Kampf, one for here, one in the bedroom, and one beside the toilet.’ She shook her head. ‘They kept us warm for a couple of hours while we worked.’

Russell had noticed the stacks of SPD leaflets. ‘Are you working for the Social Democrats?’

‘Yes, there’s a committee tonight.’

‘Ah, I’d be interested in talking to you both about that. Off the record, of course.’

Ali looked surprised, as if she’d forgotten that he was a journalist. ‘But if you were both safe in England, why have you come back? Life in Berlin is pretty dreadful, and I can’t see it getting any better before the spring.’

‘We’re here to work,’ Effi said. ‘I’m doing a film. Well, probably. If it ever gets started. And you remember Rosa?’

‘Of course. The girl the Swede sent us. I always felt bad about leaving you then.’

‘You shouldn’t have. We survived, and I fell in love with her. She’s in England with my sister. We know her mother’s dead, but I need to find out what happened to her father.’

‘Oh. Well, I can probably help you there. There must be someone I know in every Jewish organisation in Berlin. I’ll give you a list of names and addresses. And you should leave notices wherever you go. And in the papers. They’re even reading messages out on the Russian radio station now. These days Berlin’s like a huge missing persons bureau.’ She grinned at Effi. ‘It’s so good to see you again. When we were living together on Bismarckstrasse, I used to dream about this moment — when the war was over, and there was nothing to fear, and people to love and laugh with.’

‘She talked a lot about you,’ Fritz volunteered. ‘And you too,’ he added, including Russell. ‘You must have known the family.’

‘I did. They really are dead then?’ ‘Oh yes,’ Ali said, almost matter-of-factly. ‘I found their names on one of the Auschwitz lists last summer. But I’d known for years, ever since the first stories reached Berlin.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Russell said. ‘They were wonderful people.’

‘Yes, they were. For a long time I was really angry with them. With my father for being so stupidly optimistic, with my mother for indulging him. But then those were the things I loved about them.’ She sighed. ‘And now they’re gone.’ She smiled at Fritz. ‘And we have our lives to live. Three of them soon — I’m four months pregnant.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Effi burst out, and the two women embraced again. Both were in tears, Russell noticed. He felt like crying himself.