Lehrter Station

Ghosts of Treblinka

With The Man I Shall Kill so close to completion Kuhnert had decided cast and crew would work on New Year’s Day, and Effi had long disappeared on the Soviet bus when a dark-haired youth arrived at the door with a package for John Russell. Assured that he had the right person, the boy handed it over and walked away, ignoring Russell’s query as to who it was from.

There were people in the kitchen, so Russell took the small parcel upstairs and unwrapped it on their bed. There was a stiff-backed ledger inside but no accompanying letter. Leafing through it, Russell understood why — the book spoke for itself. There was a page for each of Fehse’s employees, stating their real names, and listing details of their past employ in various Nazi organizations.

Guessing what this meant, he stuffed the book under their mattress, and went downstairs to collect his coat. The sky was overcast, the air warm for the time of year, and his route to the American Press Club seemed unusually well-populated. Outside the Sector HQ the pavement was littered with New Year’s Eve debris, and a large sign welcoming 1946 was draped across the front facade. Like everyone else, the Americans were hoping for something better than the year just ended.

As usual, all the local papers were available for perusal in the corner of the Press Club lounge, and it didn’t take Russell long to find the item he was looking for. ‘Night Club owner murdered,’ the headline ran — Rudolf Geruschke had been found dead in his Wannsee villa, the latest victim of Berlin’s spiralling crime wave. There were two paragraphs lamenting the recent plague of robberies attributed to Russian and Polish DPs, but no specific connection was offered, let alone proven. The manner of death was not spelt out, and no mention was made of what had been stolen.

There had, Russell guessed, only been the one item — the book now hidden under his mattress.

He felt… what did he feel? After more than a little consideration, he had abandoned any idea of passing on all he knew about Geruschke-Fehse to another journalist. Dallin couldn’t have stopped him, or even proved his guilt thereafter, but the American would have known. And the relationship between them — which he and Shchepkin needed to work — would be damaged beyond repair.

So he had done the next best thing. He had written down all he knew about Fehse, and persuaded Wilhelm Isendahl to fix up a meeting with the Ghosts of Treblinka. A young Jewish man had met him in Neukolln the next evening. He had skimmed through Russell’s notes, raised his head, and offered a look of withering scorn. But he had taken the indictment with him.

And they hadn’t wasted much time. There was no mention of a mark on the body, but Russell was willing to bet that there’d been one. Crosby would know about it, and that should let Russell out. As far as he knew, only the Ghosts could implicate him, and first they would have to be caught. And given the state of the Berlin police, that seemed less than likely.

Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds, and a stroll in the Grunewald seemed indicated. He was soon crossing the path that he and his Russian companions had traversed the previous April — only eight months ago, but it seemed like years.

He was glad that Fehse was gone, or grateful at least that someone had stopped him. He hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, but felt responsible nevertheless. Which brought the number of men he had killed to a chilling six.

He had thought murdering Nemedin would haunt him, but it hadn’t, not really. And neither would Fehse. If he was haunted by anything, it was leaving the boy on the mountain. Sometimes that awful cry of grief seemed to echo through the ruins.

There had been no repercussions over Nemedin, no public complaints from the Soviets, no desperate Shchepkin banging on his door. None of which had surprised him. Nemedin might conceivably have confided in someone, but it seemed unlikely — the man had been far too sure of himself.

He would be replaced of course. There would be another Nemedin looming over Shchepkin’s shoulder, probably just as suspicious, and possibly not so careless. They would have to deal with whoever it was, and Russell would have to deal with Dallin, until Shchepkin found the magic spade that would dig them out of their hole.

He had hoped that the need for fancy footwork would vanish with the war, but life and the Soviets had had other ideas, and he would have to keep on dancing. Maybe he and Effi could emulate those winners of Depression-era dance marathons, and be the very last couple with their feet still twitching.

Dallin on Thursday, Shchepkin on Friday — what was it Eliot had said about measuring his life in coffee spoons? He seemed to be measuring his in espionage trysts.

But Miriam’s father had decided to live, and the family had a flat of their own. Thomas was due back on Saturday with Hanna and Lotte, and Effi was leaving on Monday, intent on returning with Rosa, Zarah and Lothar. Only Paul seemed keen to stay in England, but at least his son seemed happy. A father could hardly ask for more.

Even his stock as a journalist seemed to be rising. According to Solly, his reporting of the Jewish exodus was the talk of Fleet Street.

And best of all, it seemed like he and Effi had found each other again, where it mattered, in the heart.

After walking through the trees for an hour or so, he turned for home. As he rounded the corner into Vogelsangstrasse a scrawny cat ran across the road and disappeared into the rubble.

It was the first he’d seen since their return, a fitting partner for the first bird, which had flown past their window that morning.

Maybe Berlin would rise again.