Lehrter Station

The Man I Shall Kill

The same young British soldier turned up at Thomas’s house on Saturday morning with another letter from London. Effi insisted on making him tea, partly out of gratitude, partly for the pleasure of a few minutes’ company. He talked about his girlfriend back in Birmingham and, rather more wistfully, about the vintage motorcycle he was restoring. Rommel, she remembered, had enjoyed the same pastime.

Once the soldier had gone she took the letter upstairs to read. There were two pages from Rosa about her schoolfriends and teacher, along with a folded drawing of a couple out walking on Parliament Hill, both wrapped up so warmly that only their eyes were visible. Somehow you could still tell that they were old.

Zarah’s letter ran to several pages. She described two films she’d seen at the nearby cinema, both starring Ingrid Bergman. The one with her idol Bing Crosby was set in a Catholic school, and sounded far too schmaltzy for Effi’s taste; the other, with Gregory Peck and dream sequences by Salvador Dali, piqued her interest. Surrealism had been frowned upon in the Third Reich, at least where the arts were concerned.

Paul was still seeing a lot of Marisa, Lothar had taken up stamp collecting, and Rosa was again doing well at school. Again? Effi wondered. Her sister had never suggested anything else. And Rosa missed her, Zarah went on, before lamenting the poor selection of vegetables at Camden market.

There was no mention of Jens until the very last paragraph, and then nothing of Zarah’s own feelings about his survival. ‘I told Lothar his father was alive,’ she wrote. ‘I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but I didn’t expect him to be so angry. He said he’d write to his father, but he hasn’t. I don’t know whether to encourage him or not. What do you think? Anyway, I expect we’ll be back in Berlin before long. I like England more than I thought I would, but it’s not home. Perhaps we can all live together in Berlin. In a bigger house of course!’

Effi put down the letter, and wiped the tears from her cheeks. Rosa missed her. And she missed Rosa.

She walked to the window and looked out at the desolate garden. Over the last few years she’d grown happier with her own company, but today she felt the need of someone to talk to. Which was unfortunate. Thomas had left the previous day for his family Christmas in the country, and Annaliese was out in Spandau visiting Gerd’s parents. Even Frau Niebel and her daughter had gone to relations, and the house felt almost deserted.

She wanted John back, but still hadn’t heard a word. She hated not knowing where or how he was. When work had taken him away in the old days, there’d always been the telephone, but the occupying powers were still denying Germans any communications with the outside world. What was the point of that?

Russell’s train terminated at Kopenick, the Berlin suburb where the Soviets had their military HQ, soon after seven that evening. The journey from Breslau had taken twenty-four hours, roughly four times the pre-war average, but he wasn’t complaining. He had lost count of the number of motionless trains they had passed, either standing in stations or stabled in remote refuge sidings. Some had been surrounded by milling people, others just standing there, with all the appearance of being empty. And, in at least one case, only the appearance. Stopping alongside one line of cattle cars, Russell and his fellow passengers had heard frantic hammering and harrowing cries for release. The Russian thespians had looked appalled.

Had Torsten and the children been travelling in one of those trains? He had no way of knowing.

The Kopenick Station buffet was full of Russians, and appropriately stocked. After eating his first decent meal for twenty-four hours, Russell searched in a vain for a working telephone, then boarded the next train into the city.

It was almost ten when he reached Dahlem-Dorf. As he walked north through the mostly empty streets he felt a growing sense of anxiety about Effi. Anything could have happened in the last two weeks, and no one would have been able to reach him. When she opened the door, he let out an almost explosive sigh of relief.

They held each other for a long time.

‘Is Esther here?’ was the first thing he asked.

‘Yes, but I think she’s gone to bed. Why? What have you found out?’

He took her into the kitchen, shut the door behind them, and told her everything he’d discovered in Breslau. ‘I’ll tell her in the morning,’ he decided. ‘There’s no point waking her now.’

‘No,’ Effi agreed. She was wondering, as Russell had, how Esther and Leon would take the news. ‘But how did you end up in Breslau?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were going to Italy.’

‘I did.’ As Effi made them tea he took her through his journey — the meetings with Slaney and Mizrachi in Vienna, and with Otto 3 and Albert Wiesner in Pontebba; welcoming Nachod and unfriendly Breslau. The only thing he omitted was the encounter with Hirth and his son. That could wait.

‘So Torsten and the children are somewhere between Breslau and here?’

‘Probably. And the chances are good they’ll pass through Berlin. I’ll leave messages at all the reception centres tomorrow. But how are you? And where’s Thomas?’

‘He’s gone to spend Christmas with Hanna and Lotte. And I’ve had some adventures of my own.’

‘The flat?’

‘Oh that. Yes, and you’ll never guess who I ran into at the Schmargendorf Housing Office.’ She told him about Jens. ‘But that wasn’t the adventure. Annaliese asked me for help — she had to collect some medicines from some black marketeers. I took your gun,’ she added, seeing the look on his face.

Should that make him feel better or worse, he wondered. He considered admonishing her for taking such risks, but knew he’d be wasting his breath.

Effi described the meeting in Teltow, her recognising the man in the lorry, and the American invasion of her Babelsberg dressing room. She explained the connections she had made, and their confirmation during her and Thomas’s Saturday night visit to the Honey Trap.

‘Thomas went to the Honey Trap?’

‘Only after I begged. He frowned a lot.’

‘I’ll bet he did.’

‘You know, this has been our month for renewing acquaintances — Jens, Albert, that Gestapo officer. And I renewed another one on your behalf — your photographer friend Zembski.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes, I saw him at his office.’

‘By chance?’

‘No, didn’t I say? I thought it would be a good idea to get some pictures of Geruschke and his employees, ones we could show around. So I went to see him, and he recommended this boy — well, he’s about seventeen, I should think.’

Russell knew he shouldn’t be surprised, but he was anyway. ‘Have you had time to do any filming?’ he asked.

‘We’re nearly finished. I have to go in on Monday — they’re having us work on Christmas Eve, would you believe? — but then not again until Thursday. Dufring’s hoping to have it all wrapped up by the New Year, and then — I’ve decided — I’m going to England. To fetch Rosa,’ she added, seeing the look on his face. ‘And I think Zarah and Lothar will be coming back with us.’ She told Russell what her sister had said in the letter.

‘And Paul?’

‘She didn’t say. But what do you think?’

‘About what?’

‘About what I’ve been telling you. About Geruschke.’

‘I’ve hardly had time to take it all in. It seems like we’re in with a chance of getting something on the bastard, but only at the risk of enraging the Americans.’

‘Do we care what they think?

‘I’m afraid we have to.’ His and Shchepkin’s future — in fact all of their futures — depended on it.

‘So we just forget about him?’

‘Of course not. We can still nail him, but we have to make damn sure we don’t take the credit.’

Next morning was sunny and cold. Esther was on her way out when Russell caught up with her; he asked her to wait while he grabbed his own coat, and the two of them talked in the garden. She didn’t cry when he told her that her daughter was dead, just lowered her head with the air of someone acknowledging an obvious truth.

‘But there’s good news too,’ he told her.

Her look suggested he’d taken leave of his senses.

He told her about the children, about Torsten Resch, about the happiness Miriam had apparently known. He avoided the matter of the boy’s parentage — he wanted to talk to Torsten before spelling out what he feared. ‘The children’s names are Leon and Esther,’ he added, and that did bring tears to her eyes.

‘Where are they?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know. They left Breslau about ten days ago, heading west. Today I’ll start checking the stations. We’ll find them.’

‘Will you come to the hospital and tell all this to Leon? And if Effi could come as well — she always seems to perk him up.’

Russell smiled. ‘Of course.’

An hour later the three of them were gathered around Leon Rosenfeld’s bed. He seemed better than he had a fortnight ago, and took the tidings of Miriam’s death almost as stoically as his wife had done. By contrast, the news that he had grandchildren almost had him leaping from his bed. If no one had been there to restrain him, he would soon have been scouring eastern Germany and Poland for his namesake.

After a quarter of an hour, Russell and Effi said their goodbyes. On their way out, it occurred to Russell that Erich Luders might still be in the hospital, and a query at reception elicited directions to another ward. They found him sitting up in bed.

‘They’re letting me out tomorrow,’ the young journalist told them. ‘I’ve been lucky. Compared to some, at any rate.’

‘Who do you mean?’ Russell asked.

‘Haven’t you heard? Manfred Haferkamp was killed the other day. A suicide, according to the police in the Russian zone, but there are lots of rumours. Haferkamp hated the Russians and their German supporters — Ulbricht and his gang — and he wasn’t afraid to say so.’

‘Maybe he should have been,’ Russell murmured. He felt sick inside. Had his report caused this? Hadn’t Shchepkin implied that expulsion from the Party was the worst that could happen? Or had that been wishful thinking on his own part? He wanted to talk to the Russian.

‘What’s the matter?’ Effi asked him, once they’d left the young man.

He told her.

She squeezed his arm, but didn’t try to argue him out of feeling responsible. ‘Is there anything you can do?’

‘I can tell Shchepkin…’ he began, but that was far as the thought went. What could he tell Shchepkin?

‘Perhaps he was fooled too.’

‘Perhaps,’ Russell said doubtfully.

At the front entrance a public telephone was actually working. He dialled the emergency number that Shchepkin had given him, and left the agreed message. They would meet the next morning.

Effi took his place at the phone, called Lucie at home, and dictated a list of reception points for Russell to write down. All were stations or railway yards, and Russell remembered most of them from 1941, when they’d been used to ship Jews in the other direction. He supposed he should be pleased that Torsten and the children weren’t headed for a Nazi death camp.

They went their separate ways, he to visit the railway locations, she to the local Housing Office. If the refugees reached Berlin they would need somewhere to live, preferably somewhere big enough to accommodate Esther and Leon as well. With grandparents and grandchildren both qualifying as Victims of Fascism, the man she spoke to seemed sanguine enough, though he noted that Torsten’s status might prove problematic.

Effi felt like pointing out that Torsten was also a ‘victim’, but then so, she supposed, were half the people in Europe.

For Russell, the only difficulty was getting from place to place in anything approaching a reasonable time. It all seemed to take forever, but by the end of the afternoon he had left messages and contact details at all the relevant offices. He finally arrived home to find Effi ensconced in their bedroom with a bespectacled young man. The bed was covered with photographs, grainy blow-ups of faces and figures against the same desolate backdrop. ‘That’s my Gestapo killer,’ Effi said, pointing out one face. ‘And here’s the American colonel we saw with Geruschke that night.’

There were two copies of each photograph. ‘Here’s our first Otto,’ Russell said, noticing the accountant in the background of one picture. ‘And this is the man who was going to shoot me in Kyritz Wood. I can’t see his partner anywhere.’

Effi examined the face of the would-be killer, and shuddered. ‘And we have three addresses,’ she added. ‘Including my Gestapo man’s. Horst is a star.’

‘It was the irregulars who followed them home,’ the photographer admitted, but he still seemed pleased by the compliment. ‘There are eleven faces,’ he said, ‘so that’s fourteen packs.’

Russell pulled the suitcase from under the bed and counted out the cigarette packets. It was time he asked Dallin for more.

Sattler dropped them into a canvass holdall and zipped it up. ‘Let me know if you need any inside shots,’ he said. ‘But please, I’d appreciate you not mentioning my name to anyone.’

‘Geruschke makes a very bad enemy,’ Russell agreed.

‘It’s my business I’m thinking of,’ Sattler countered. ‘I’m doing a lot of work for Americans — that’s why I’m in Dahlem this afternoon — and I don’t want to upset anyone.’

‘What sort of work?’ Russell asked out of curiosity.

‘Nothing like this,’ Sattler told him, gesturing towards the display on the bed. ‘Mostly sex, but the Americans like to call it art. God knows how they won the war.’

Effi saw him downstairs to the door, then came back up. Russell was still scanning the photographs. ‘That boy’ll go far,’ he observed.

‘He will, won’t he?’

‘Germany’s future,’ Russell murmured, still looking at the pictures. ‘Now what do we do with these?’

The Tiergarten black market seemed busier than usual, probably because it was Christmas Eve. Remembering he hadn’t got a present for Effi, Russell took more interest than usual in the items for sale, but nothing leapt out at him. It was hard to take this Christmas seriously, even with a light coating of snow on the ground.

Shchepkin appeared at his shoulder with all the old magical abruptness, but seemed more agitated than usual. And when Russell started pouring out his indignation over Haferkamp’s death, the Russian just told him to get a grip. ‘We have a real problem,’ he said. ‘Nemedin is still furious with both of us. We have to fix him before he fixes us.’

‘Why?’ Russell asked. ‘I mean, why’s he furious?’

‘The farce with Schreier, his guards getting killed. He had his knuckles rapped by Beria — if it weren’t for his family connections he’d have been recalled. And he blames us. You in particular, but he’s also suspicious of me.’

‘Oh shit,’ Russell murmured.

‘Indeed.’

‘So how do we fix him? Do you have any brilliant ideas?’ Asking the question, he wondered what sort of answer he wanted to hear.

‘I hope so. While you’ve been chasing Jews I’ve been digging up incriminating material. I now have access to Nemedin’s NKVD personnel file, and such files — in case you don’t know — are very comprehensive. Your own runs to forty-five pages, and Nemedin’s is five times as long. He has, shall we say, a controversial history. He was responsible for the purging of several other communist parties during the time of the Pact, and he was involved in the execution of the Polish officer corps — almost ten thousand of them — in 1940.’

‘So the Poles in London are telling the truth.’

‘About that, yes, though not about much else. But can we concentrate on the matter in hand? There’s enough in Nemedin’s file to tell the Western allies who and what he really is, which is the first objective. I also have a photograph of Nemedin with a British agent. It was taken by our people in London, with a view to incriminating the Englishman, but we can use it the other way round, to cast doubt on Nemedin’s loyalty. I want you to deliver the file and the photograph to a British journalist named Tristram Hadleigh — do you know him?’

‘No.’ Though judging by the name he knew the type.

‘He has friends in your Secret Service, and I assume that he’ll either get the story printed or pass it on to them. If the file and the photograph are published, Nemedin’s ability to work outside the Soviet Union will be over. His face will be known, and there’ll be a huge question mark over his loyalty. At worst, he’ll be called back to Moscow; at best, Beria will have him shot for incompetence. Do I shock you? He’d like nothing better than to have me shot. And you too, after what happened with Schreier.’

‘Why do I have to deliver these things? What’s wrong with the post? Or some young German boy?’

‘They’ll be more credible coming from you. It mustn’t look like one of our schemes. You’re a journalist with a good track record here in Berlin, with ties to the old KPD. And that’s where you say you got hold of the stuff — from a disgruntled German comrade.’

‘Why not give it to the Americans? We can tell them the truth.’

‘No, it has to be the British. If the journalist passes it to the British Secret Service, Beria will hear about it from his mole in London.’

‘I’d forgotten about that. So how are you going to get the stuff to me? By post?’

‘No. You’ll have to collect it from a dead letter drop.’

‘Why?’

‘The post can’t be trusted, and the fewer people who know about this the better. I’ll be in Warsaw when you pick it up…’

‘What?’

‘Yes, I have to distance myself from this. Which will help you too — if they don’t suspect me, they won’t suspect you.’

That made a vague sort of sense, but…

‘Look, you must collect the stuff on Friday, just before dark would be best. The drop-off is a shop at Roland Ufer 17. There’s an overhead railway station just up the road. If you arrange to meet Hadleigh at the British Press Club you can take a train and hand the stuff over. As simple as that. And we’ll be rid of Nemedin, which should save both our lives.’

Put like that…

‘You’ll do it?’

‘I suppose so. How did you get hold of his personnel file?’

‘I still have a few friends from the old days, most of them clinging on with their fingertips, just like me. We help each other when we can.’

‘So what can go wrong?’ Russell asked.

Shchepkin shrugged. ‘There’s always a risk, but we really have no choice. Take a good look around before you go in.’

‘That doesn’t really answer my question.’

‘What could go wrong is your getting caught with the material, in which case we’ll both be finished. But there’s no reason why you should be. No one will know the material’s missing until the next day.’

Russell gave him a suspicious look. ‘If you’re away in Warsaw, someone else has to be involved.’

‘Of course, but you wouldn’t expect me to give you a name. You wouldn’t recognise it. And it wouldn’t help you if you did.’

Russell sighed. As usual with Shchepkin, he felt as though he’d been led deep into a maze, and left to wonder where he was. Taking ‘a good look around’ was all very well, but the same thought had probably occurred to the fool who commanded the Light Brigade. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But anything remotely suspicious, and I’m going home empty-handed. All right?’

‘Of course,’ Shchepkin said, sounding ever so slightly relieved. ‘Now I have something for you. The Jew you wanted traced.’

‘Otto Pappenheim.’

‘Yes. He did receive a transit visa, and he did cross the new border between Germany and the Soviet Union.’

‘Ah.’

‘On June 21st, 1941.’

‘The day before the invasion.’

‘Exactly. His train was stopped at Baranovichi — eastward movements were halted so all available lines could be used to reinforce the frontier. And that’s the last official trace of him. There’s certainly no record of him reaching Moscow, or travelling on the Trans-Siberian. Either he was caught up in the early fighting, or he found refuge in one of the local Jewish communities. And you know what happened to them.’

Russell did. ‘Could you find out his age?’

‘Yes, I forgot. He was born in 1914, in Berlin. His documents claimed he was single, but many applicants lied about that. As much to themselves as to us.’

Russell grunted his agreement. If this was Rosa’s father — and the age seemed about right — then a guilty lie was possible. But the chances of tracking him down seemed almost non-existent — if this Otto wasn’t buried in an unmarked grave somewhere in western Russia, he could be more or less anywhere. If the man ever came back in search of his family, then he might well find them, but as things stood they would never find him. ‘Thanks for that,’ he told Shchepkin. As they got up to leave he remembered his original purpose. ‘So why was Haferkamp killed?’ he asked.

Shchepkin looked at him for a moment, then managed a wry smile. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Rumour says it was an accident — that some young idiot hit him once too often, and his superiors decided that a suicide was less likely to upset the German comrades. Then again, maybe someone thought they needed upsetting, and had him killed for that reason. I don’t know.’

‘So it wasn’t just my report.’

‘No,’ Shchepkin said tiredly, as if he found Russell’s concern to apportion personal responsibility more than a little exasperating. ‘Your report didn’t tell them anything new. Not about Haferkamp anyway. Now I must be off. If all goes well, we’ll meet again in a fortnight.’

He strode off, briefly raising one arm in farewell. ‘If all goes well,’ Russell murmured to himself. He could imagine the riposte on his gravestone: ‘If all had gone well, he wouldn’t be here.’

But Friday was a long way off, and the Soviets far from his only problem. He had to come up with a plan for dealing with Geruschke, look out for Torsten and the children, and get his story off to Solly. He still hadn’t fixed on an angle for the latter, and talking to Isendahl might jolt his thoughts into some sort of order. He could then find a cafe to write in, prior to joining Effi at Ali’s.

He spent the long walk to Friedrichshain marshalling his thoughts, and was pleased to find Isendahl at home. His German friend was eager to hear how Russell had fared with the Haganah, and they ended up talking for over two hours about the options open to Europe’s Jewish survivors, and the seriously mixed blessings that each seemed to offer. Neither man took to the idea of Israel, but both saw the need, and thought it inevitable. So what mattered was what kind of Israel — a racially exclusive state run by soldiers and rabbis, or an heir to European Jewry’s socialist traditions that might, one day, share the land with the Arabs on more or less equal terms. Isendahl of course favoured the latter, but he wasn’t hopeful.

‘I was thinking about those options you listed,’ he told Russell. ‘And I asked myself: where would I — a German-Jewish socialist — feel most at home? And guess what answer I came up with? Not a Soviet-run Germany, not a Jewish Palestine, not the United States. It’s almost the ultimate paradox — the place I know I’ll feel most at home is a born-again bourgeois Germany. The same one that took such pleasure in murdering both socialists and Jews.’

Russell smiled, and found himself thinking of Albert Wiesner. He claimed to be a socialist, but his socialism didn’t stretch to accommodating Arabs within the new state’s borders. And when forced to choose between socialism and Israel, Russell had no doubt which way Albert would jump. The Nazis had given him his politics, and he would pass them on. There was still a price to pay.

But what was the alternative? Back in 1918 Russell had looked forward to a world in which anti-Semitism and other equally obnoxious prejudices would become increasingly unsustainable, but the Nazis had put paid to that dream, probably for at least another century. The old Jewish life in Germany and eastern Europe was gone for ever, and with it the hopes of a secular assimilation. It was Israel or the States, and Russell was inclined to favour the latter. It seemed better that the Americans profit from Europe’s failings, than that the Arabs pay for them.

Not that it mattered what he thought. And he would not condemn those, like Albert, who thought differently. Or at least not yet.

Russell remembered something that Albert had said about the Nokmim, that he didn’t agree with what they were doing, but would probably applaud their successes. He asked Isendahl whether they or the Ghosts of Treblinka had made the news in his absence.

‘Only indirectly,’ Wilhelm told him. He rummaged round for a newspaper, and pointed out an article. A man had been found dead in Neukolln, soon after a Jew identified him as an Auschwitz guard.

‘Why wasn’t he arrested?’ Russell asked.

‘Who knows? The Soviets may have had a use for him.’

‘You think it was the Ghosts?’

‘They left their mark on him. A Star of David cut into his forearm, where the Nazis used to tattoo their Jewish prisoners.’

‘Wonderful,’ Russell said drily.

‘It is in a way. And dreadful too. Do you know that line by Yeats: “a terrible beauty is born”?’

‘Uh-huh. High drama’s addictive stuff, but right now I’d settle for a few years of peace and contrition.’

‘Wrong place, wrong time.’

‘Probably.’

Isendahl was improving with age, Russell thought, as he walked back down Neue Konigstrasse in search of a cafe. He’d noticed a letter with US Army postal markings on the man’s desk, so maybe Freya was in touch, or even coming back.

He eventually found a bar off Alexanderplatz, and spent a couple of hours sketching out a series of articles on ‘The Jews after Hitler’. He reached the corner of Hufelandstrasse just in time to see Effi step down from the Soviet bus, and stopped her in mid stride with a long whistle. She hurried towards him, eager to hear the news from Shchepkin.

‘It might have been Rosa’s dad,’ Russell told her, ‘but we’ll probably never know.’ He explained the circumstances of Otto 2’s disappearance.

Effi made a face. ‘What more can we do?’

‘Nothing more,’ Russell told her, ‘at least for the moment. I think we have to assume that Rosa’s an orphan, and act accordingly.’

She took his arm as they walked back down to Ali’s building. ‘There’s not much else we can do, is there? But she so needs to know, one way or another. She never says so, but I know that she does.’

And so do you, Russell thought.

They walked on up to the apartment, where another delicious-smelling meal was in preparation. Neither Ali nor Fritz had ever celebrated Christmas, but both confessed to a childhood fascination with the Christian festival and its rituals, particularly the one which involved taking a tree indoors and smothering it in trinkets. Fritz had been gifted a bottle of wine by a friend in the US forces, and they all drank a toast to the future.

‘While I remember,’ Effi said, ‘the photographer I told you about has taken some pictures.’ She took the sheaf from her bag and placed it on the table. ‘If you could show these around. The more people get to see them, the more we’ll identify.’

Ali leafed her way through them, Fritz looking over her shoulder. ‘The stuff of nightmares,’ he murmured. ‘If you do get them identified, what then?’

‘I’ll take the names to someone in the US records office.’ Russell replied. Luders had given him one contact, and there were bound to be others. ‘From there — I don’t know.’ He knew he should talk to Dallin before taking the matter any further, but he didn’t really want to.

‘Like mopping up after a battle,’ Fritz murmured.

Or clearing the decks for the next one, Russell thought sourly. He told himself to cheer the hell up. 1946 was bound to be better.

The women had gone into the kitchen, and he could see Effi leaning back against the wall, smiling at something. The world might be going even further to the dogs, but she was as wonderful as ever. How lucky was he?

It was a pre-war sort of evening, with good food and conversation, a wine that wasn’t an insult, an enjoyable game of cards. It was snowing again when they left, large flakes floating out of the darkness and clinging to the riven walls. There weren’t many roofs for Santa to land on, but several hopeful chimneys rose out of the empty shells.

It was, Effi decided, ‘almost like a real Christmas’.

Christmas morning drew them to the Ku’damm, in hope of reprising their own pre-war ritual of coffee, cakes and a stroll in the wintry park. Rather to Russell’s surprise, they did find an open cafe, its tables set out on the snowy sidewalk, the smell of real coffee strong in the air. The price was black-market steep, but the coffee seemed more than worth it, a suitable present for each to be giving the other. They sat outside and took their time, smiling at passers-by and imagining the boulevard re-built. When a British jeep drove by garlanded in silver tinsel the patrons all clapped, causing the corporal next to the driver to stand up and bow.

The sound of a tram squealing its way round the truncated Memorial Church reminded Effi of what they had planned. ‘So, Schulstrasse?’ she asked.

‘I suppose so. It doesn’t feel very Christmassy.’

‘Neither does sitting at home with no heat.’

‘True. Well, let’s hope we can get there.’

They walked down to Zoo Station, where both the Stadtbahn and U-Bahn were running some sort of service. The outdoor option seemed preferable, and not just to them — the high-level platforms were crowded with families, most of whom seemed in high spirits. A lot got off when they did, probably bound for the funfair in the Lustgarten. They walked down to the U-Bahn platform, where a train stood waiting to carry them northward. ‘It’s always like this for royalty,’ Russell noted.

They reached the Jewish Hospital around one o’clock, and the crowded canteen seemed like a good place to start. With only the one set of photographs, they worked their way from table to table, trying to disarm what suspicions they encountered, as prepared as they could be for signs of anguish.

Effi’s Gestapo officer was recognised almost straight away, first by one young man, and then by several women. All agreed his surname was Mechnig, and one of the women thought his first name was Ulrich. He had worked at the Columbiahaus ‘wild concentration camp’ before the war, and later at the Alex. He had no particular reputation as a sadist, but then the competition had been fierce.

An hour or so later, five other faces had been recognised. Russell noted the names on the backs of the photographs, along with the details of witnesses willing to testify.

Which was good, but less than they’d hoped for, and as they made their way out Effi insisted on interrupting a football kick-about in the ambulance bay. It was the third boy — a wary-eyed lad of around sixteen — who lingered over the picture of Geruschke. It is him,’ he whispered eventually, and Effi thought for a moment that the boy was going to cry. But instead the eyes turned to stone. ‘Standartenfuhrer Fehse,’ he said, and abruptly handed that picture back.

‘Are you certain?’ Effi asked, and received a pitying look. ‘Where do you know him from?’

‘He was in charge of the detention centre in Leipzig. He sent us to Auschwitz.’

‘Who?’

‘My mother, my father, my sisters. They all died.’

‘How did you survive?’ Effi asked.

The boy shrugged. ‘I was a good worker.’

‘What can you tell us about Fehse?’

‘He was one of the worst. In Leipzig he took bribes to let people go — money, daughters, whatever they had — but later we found out that he’d just moved the girls to another building. They still ended up on the train.’ The boy resumed his perusal of the pictures. ‘And Fehse enjoyed watching beatings,’ he added as an afterthought.

Two more men were picked out. The first he thought was named Schonhoft, the second he couldn’t remember. Both had been jailers in Leipzig.

‘Would you testify against these people?’ Russell asked.

‘Not in a German court.’

‘An American one?’

‘Perhaps.’

Russell asked the boy for his name.

‘Daniel Eisenberg. But you’d better hurry — I plan to be in Palestine soon. We all do.’

‘Did you mean it — about going to the Americans with what we’ve found out?’ Effi asked Russell as they walked up Vogelsangstrasse. ‘They’ve already warned us both to leave the man alone. Or are you hoping they don’t know who he really is?’

‘I’d be amazed if they didn’t. And to answer your question, I really don’t know. We have to tell someone, and maybe we can find some Americans who do want to listen. But first I think we might pay your Gestapo man a visit. We need more information, and we have his address. If we offer Herr Mechnig some money and a head start, he might tell us more about Geruschke’s — Fehse’s — operation. And particularly about the American that young Horst took the picture of. I’d like to know more about him before I go to Dallin. Or whoever it is we go to.’

‘I don’t like the idea of letting Mechnig go,’ Effi protested. She could still see the boy on the U-Bahn platform.

‘We won’t,’ Russell said. ‘We’ll take a leaf out of Fehse’s book, and promise him something we have no intention of delivering.’

Effi thought about that. ‘Okay,’ she said eventually. ‘He lives not far from Jens — we could walk over there this evening.’

‘And wish him a Happy Christmas,’ Russell added, as he opened Thomas’s front gate.

In the event, Herr Mechnig had to wait. One of the residents had left a short note by the telephone: ‘Message from Lucie — they’ve arrived.’

‘Yes!’ Russell exclaimed, clenching a fist in celebration. He re-read the message just to make sure. The ‘they’ was encouraging, though hardly definitive.

Effi already had the front door open. It was dark when they reached Kronprinzenallee again, and the buses had vanished with the light. After waiting almost an hour, Russell remembered the lot full of Press Club jeeps on nearby Argentinischeallee. They were used for taking visiting journalists on tours of the Berlin ruins, but such jaunts seemed unlikely on Christmas evening. And surely no one could object to one being used for the odd rescue mission.

The sergeant in charge was unimpressed by this argument, but proved susceptible to others — Effi’s smile, an extortionate hire price in cigarettes, and Russell’s surrender of his press accreditation as security. The deal done, he insisted on loaning Russell a US Army greatcoat and cap, ‘just in case’.

Effi wanted to drive, but had to admit that might look suspicious, and once Russell got the hang of the gear-shift they made good progress through the dark and mostly empty streets. After all the frustrations of the last fortnight, moving through Berlin at this sort of speed seemed nothing short of miraculous. There were lights through windows and shell-holes, and the occasional sounds of Christmas revelry in the distance. As they drove past a roofless church in Moabit the bells began to toll, adding their own mournful commentary to the sea of broken homes.

The area around Lehrter Station was as crowded as the city was empty. Russell pulled the jeep up alongside others bearing the UNRRA initials, and was careful to take the key. Several trains stood in the station, and all seemed recent arrivals — the platforms were swarming with people, most turning this way and that for some notion of where to go. Other, earlier arrivals had given up wondering, and transformed the concourse into a field of small encampments, groups of prone bodies surrounded by suitcase perimeters. In one cordoned-off area stretchers were laid out in rows, some bodies twitching, others worryingly still. The strong smell of human waste hung in the air, and one line of cattle cars was being rinsed out by a chain of bucket carriers.

The only thing missing was noise. Apart from the tired hiss of engines and the odd cry of alarm, the crowd seemed subdued to the point of submission. They had reached Berlin and the safety of the newly shrunken Fatherland, but at the cost of their homes and most of their possessions. And now their lives had shrunk to this — a few square metres of concrete under a bomb-mangled roof.

They found Lucie bandaging a young boy’s leg. ‘They’re in one of the offices,’ she told them. ‘Wait a few seconds and I’ll take you.’

She tore and knotted the ends, smiled at the child and got to her feet. The child gazed back with empty eyes, then threw both arms around his mother’s neck and tried to hide his face.

They worked their way along the crowded platform to an office near the end. Opening the door, Russell saw Torsten sitting on the opposite bench, his one arm securing the baby girl on his lap. He looked twenty years older than the young man Russell had met in 1939.

The girl had fair hair and Torsten’s mouth and nose. The boy beside them had dark hair and the eyes from Miriam’s photograph. He was about five, and looked like he hadn’t slept for a week.

‘Herr Russell,’ Torsten said tiredly. It was almost a question.

‘Do you remember me?’ Russell asked.

‘Of course.’ He took a deep breath, as if trawling for energy. ‘You came to Breslau looking for Miriam.’

Russell introduced Effi.

‘And these must be Leon and Esther,’ she said.

Torsten looked confused. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I saw Frau Hoschle in Breslau,’ Russell told him. ‘She told me you where you’d gone.’

‘Why? Why were you looking for me?’

‘That’s a long story, and I think you need rest and food first. Effi and I are living in the same house as Miriam’s mother…’

‘She’s alive?’ he asked, clearly astonished.

‘And her father too, though he’s in hospital. We’d like to take you home to Esther.’

‘That’s her name,’ the boy said, pointing at his sister.

Torsten managed the faintest of smiles. ‘That sounds like heaven.’

When Russell and Effi went out the next morning, the others were all still asleep. They had given up Thomas’s bedroom to Torsten and the children, and colonised the one normally occupied by the Niebels. The mother would doubtless be livid when she found out, but Russell had unearthed a ready-made riposte while shamelessly rummaging through their possessions — a signed photograph of the Reichsmarschal, lovingly wrapped in velvet.

The Nazis lived on in so many ways, he thought, as he and Effi climbed aboard the unreturned jeep: in the devastation they had invited, in the judenfrei Germany which seemed irreversible; in bastards like Ulrich Mechnig, whom the two of them were about to visit.

Russell glanced across at Effi, who gave him a joyous smile. In prewar times her presence on such an outing would have crippled him with anxiety, but no longer. She had as much experience of dicing with danger as he had, perhaps even more. The thought crossed his mind that all their involuntary adventures of the last few years might have made them better people, but another thought running behind it suggested that the obverse was also true. Like travel, struggles with survival both broadened and narrowed the mind.

The address that Horst and his ‘irregulars’ had supplied was a corner house close to the Ringbahn. The street seemed relatively intact, the three boys who came to inspect the jeep almost healthy-looking. Russell promised them a cigarette each to mind the vehicle, and walked up the steps with Effi. The front door was hanging from one twisted hinge; they clambered through the opening and climbed the stairs to Apartment 4.

‘I’ll let you do the talking,’ Effi told him.

‘Okay,’ Russell said, taking the gun from his pocket and rapping sharply on the door. ‘You just look menacing.’

They heard footsteps inside, then a male voice demanding to know who it was.

‘Housing Office,’ Russell improvised.

‘Come back another time.’

‘If you make me come back, I’ll have to report you.’

‘Oh, what the…’ Two bolts were thrown back, the door swung open, and Mechnig came into view. He was surprised to see Effi’s face, alarmed by the gun in Russell’s hand.

Russell prodded him back into the apartment, and heard Effi close the door behind them. A girl was sitting on a threadbare couch, a blanket wrapped around her, but otherwise seemingly naked. She looked about fourteen.

‘Your daughter?’ Russell asked sarcastically, drawing a short laugh from the girl. ‘Go and get dressed,’ he told her.

‘I’ll go with her,’ Effi said, and followed her into the adjoining bedroom. The girl tossed the blanket aside and started putting her clothes on. She was all skin and bones, with bruises across her barely discernible breasts. Once dressed she took a pack of cigarettes from the row on the shelf and gave Effi a questioning look.

‘Take them all,’ Effi suggested, and the girl needed no second bidding.

In the living room Russell had ordered Mechnig onto the couch. ‘Who do you Americans think you are?’ he said sullenly, seemingly confused by Russell’s greatcoat and hat.

It seemed churlish to disabuse him. ‘What name are you using here?’ Russell asked.

‘My name is Meissner, Oskar Meissner, not that it is any of your business.’

‘Your name is Ulrich Mechnig. SS Sturmscharfuhrer Mechnig of the Berlin Gestapo. Or did you rise higher than that?’

Mechnig stared coldly back at him.

‘You’re a dead man,’ Russell said mildly.

‘You can’t touch me. Not with the friends I’ve got.’

‘Fehse and the others? They’re finished. And I can not only touch you, I can shoot you here and now. I doubt anyone would come to investigate, but even if they did, I can’t see them caring that much. The camps are full of scum like you, waiting for their trials. And their hangings.’

Mechnig opened his mouth to say something, but was distracted by the return of the women.

‘I might have known,’ the girl said, looking at him. She had obviously overheard their conversation. ‘And I won’t say anything,’ she promised Russell on her way to the door. ‘What a great companion you must be,’ Russell observed after she’d left. ‘But back to business. I want all you know about Fehse.’

‘Or what?’

‘Good question. Let me give you some options. If you won’t talk, we’ll drive you straight into the Russian sector, and hand you over to some NKVD friends of mine, along with your real identity, your false papers, and witness statements from several Jews who remember you all too well. My friend here saw you kill a young boy on a U-Bahn platform and is more than willing to testify against you, should they ever bother with a trial. I think it’s more likely that the Russians will just put you out with the rubbish.

‘Ah, not so confident,’ Russell noted. The look on Mechnig’s face suggested that the NKVD still lay outside his boss’s sphere of influence. ‘But let’s look on the positive side. If you do tell us all you know, we’ll give you a free ride to Anhalter Station, and buy you a ticket to anywhere you like in the American zone. You can keep your papers and carry on being good old squeaky-clean Oskar Meissner. You can even join the rat-run to South America if you know how. This is your chance to live, Ulrich. Your only chance.’

Mechnig said nothing for a moment, but Effi could see he was weakening. If there were two things that Russell was good at, they were talking himself out of corners, and other people into them.

‘He’ll kill me,’ Mechnig said tonelessly.

‘Not if you leave while you can.’

Mechnig ran a hand through what was left of his hair. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘Nothing too dangerous. What’s his first name, for a start?

‘Reinhard.’

‘Tell me about his business — what he deals in, how he brings the stuff in.’

‘That’s easy. Everything. He deals in everything — drugs, booze, cigarettes, girls of course — we even brought in a lorry-load of bananas the other day. Anything you can move for a profit, we move it.’

It sounded like a company slogan. ‘How is the stuff brought in? And where is it kept?’

Haulage was mostly by lorry, but Fehse also had men working on the railways. Mechnig listed several distribution centres, including the one out in Spandau where Russell’s reprieve had been granted. ‘We get stuff from everywhere — Denmark and Sweden, the American PX, all across the Reich.’

Russell felt like reminding him that the Reich was history, but concentrated on looking impressed. He could have guessed everything Mechnig had told them so far, but he didn’t want the other man to know that. ‘So Fehse has friends among the Americans?’

‘Of course.’

‘Anyone in particular?’

‘What do you mean?’

Russell had brought four of Horst’s photographs with him — the three still unidentified and the one of the uniformed American. ‘I mean him,’ he said, showing Mechnig the latter.

‘His name’s Crosby.’

‘I thought it might be. What do he and Fehse do for each other?’

‘We do jobs for him, and he keeps the occupation people off our backs.’

‘What sort of jobs?’

‘People mostly. He tells us which Germans he wants brought out of the Russian sector, and we go and get them.’

‘What sort of people?’

‘All sorts. Scientists, businessmen, patriots. These days the Americans are serious about fighting the Russians. It’s a pity they didn’t realise who their real enemy was a couple of years ago.’

‘Isn’t it just,’ Russell said drily. ‘So Fehse doesn’t have any Russians on his payroll?’

‘Only one that I know about. An army man out at Kopenick.’

‘Name?’

‘Sokolovsky.’

A shame it wasn’t Nemedin, Russell thought to himself. One last question occurred to him: ‘So why does Fehse hire so many Jews?’

Mechnig laughed for the first time. ‘The man’s a genius. None of them are really Jews, but he gets all the kudos for helping them. The Americans lap it up. A gangster with a real soft spot — that’s what they think. A German Robin Hood.’ He laughed again.

‘Where does the genius live?’

‘He has a villa out in Wannsee. It belonged to one of Heydrich’s friends.’

‘How apt.’ Russell showed Mechnig the remaining photographs, and took down the names he gave. He had no way of knowing whether the other man was telling the truth, but instinct suggested he was. Mechnig seemed almost relieved that they knew about his past.

At that moment he was staring at Effi. ‘When I saw you out in Teltow I knew I’d seen you at the club, but I had the feeling then that I’d seen your face before. And then the boss told me you were an actress.’

‘I still am,’ she told him shortly. ‘But don’t expect an autograph.’

He turned back to Russell. ‘So can I pack a suitcase?’

Ten minutes later they were on their way, with Effi at the wheel and the others seated behind her. Russell didn’t expect Mechnig to make a break for it — the promised train would carry him further and faster than his feet ever could — but he kept his hand on the gun, just in case the man had a brainstorm. When they reached Anhalter Station, he took Mechnig through to the ticket office. Frankfurt was the first available destination in the American Zone, which seemed to suit him well enough. Once Russell had purchased the ticket, Mechnig scowled his lack of gratitude, and promptly stalked away.

Behind the wheel of the jeep, Effi seemed excited. ‘None of them are really Jews,’ she repeated, as Russell climbed in beside her.

‘So he’s not a philanthropist after all.’

‘No, you idiot. None of them. Including the first Otto.’

Russell gave her an admiring look. He’d been too busy intimidating Mechnig to notice.

‘So why did he choose that name?’ Effi asked.

Russell checked the petrol gauge. ‘Let’s go and ask him.’

They drove across the desolate Tiergarten to the house on Solinger Strasse. Russell’s persistent hammering evoked no response, from either the phony Otto or any of his neighbours. ‘He’s probably at the Honey Trap,’ Russell decided. ‘And I think our welcome there may be less than effusive. We’ll have to wait.’

‘I’m working tomorrow and Friday,’ Effi lamented.

‘Then we’ll wake him up on Saturday.’

He drove them to the Press Club in Dahlem, and returned the jeep to its owners.

While Effi made use of the pampered press corps’ hot showers, he used one of the telephones to track down the number of a paper now printing in Frankfurt. ‘There’s a man on the train from Berlin,’ he told the desk he eventually reached, ‘the one that’s supposed to arrive just after nine this evening. His papers say he’s Oskar Meissner but his real name is Ulrich Mechnig. He was a Gestapo Sturmscharfuhrer, and he has a lot of blood on his hands.’

‘Who are you? How do you know about this?’

‘I’m a journalist just like you,’ Russell told him. ‘And naturally I can’t divulge my sources.’ He hung up the phone, and stood there for a moment examining his conscience.

It was fine. What he’d done was hardly cricket, but who would invite the Nazis to Lord’s?

That evening, they listened to Torsten recount Miriam’s story. The children were sleeping; Esther, though she stayed with them in the dimly lit kitchen, had heard it all that morning.

After her rescue Miriam had, at Isendahl’s instigation, been taken in by a Marthe and Franz Wilden. This Christian couple, who had no children of their own, had lavished the mute, traumatised and pregnant girl with care and attention. Frau Wilden, who had served as a nurse in the First War, had eventually helped deliver the baby, and her husband had paid a small fortune for the necessary documentation.

As Russell had guessed, the young Leon had been fathered by one of the SS rapists in the house on Eisenacher Strasse. But her son’s birth had been Miriam’s re-birth — according to Torsten she often said that having the child was like waking up again. And that, once a mother, she had become determined to survive the war.

It never mattered that Leon was the product of rape, or that the rapist was a killer of her people — she loved the child without reservation. She considered going home to Silesia but the risks seemed too high — her false papers were for a Berliner, and people would certainly recognise her in Wartha. She sent letters to her parents, but never received a reply — by this time, of course, the farm was in ruins, Leon and Esther long since gone. The lack of response upset her, but it still seemed wiser to stay where she was.

Then, in the autumn of 1942, the Wilden house had been bombed. She and Leon were in the cellar, but the Wildens were both killed, and her papers were destroyed in the subsequent fire. Risking everything, convinced that even a blind man could see she was Jewish, she went to apply for new ones, at the office which dealt with such eventualities. And the man she saw had flirted with her, ruffled Leon’s hair, and provided the papers and home she needed without so much as a second thought. That afternoon she and the boy moved into a room of their own in Wedding, stunned by how easy the process had been.

As her confidence grew, the bombing got worse, and she eventually decided that the risks of staying outweighed those of going home. She realised that Wartha was still out of bounds, but Breslau would do until the war was over, and someone might have news of her parents. Something happened on the train — something she would never talk about — but they both arrived safely, and were allocated a room by the city authorities which a Jewish family had long since abandoned. She visited the Petersdorff store more in hope than expectation — Torsten was well past the age of call-up — but there he was.

And there she was. ‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw her,’ Torsten said. ‘I fell in love with her all over again. Or I would have, if I hadn’t always loved her.’

He smiled at the memory. ‘She came to stay with me, and, well’ — he glanced across at Esther — ‘soon we were living as husband and wife. No one troubled us, and we troubled no one. Little Esther was born, and it felt as though we had a complete family. The war was getting closer of course, but we never dreamt things would get as bad as they did. We were so happy. Until the day she died we were happy.’ He raised his eyes. ‘And she lives on in the children.’

‘Yes,’ Esther said quietly. ‘Yes, she does.’

After the Soviet bus collected Effi next morning, Russell spent the predawn hours working at Thomas’s desk. By the time he set out for the Press Club it was fully light, but the canteen seemed emptier than usual, and most of the German staff looked bored to death. After satisfying his new addiction to pancakes and syrup, and downing two cups of the passable coffee, he retraced his steps as far as the American headquarters on Kronprinzenallee.

During their time together on Christmas Eve, Wilhelm Isendahl had given him the name of a sympathetic American in the Denazification section of the Public Safety division. According to Isendahl, David Franks was a New York Jew with a mission, and that was to nail as many Nazis to the wall as higher authority would allow.

His office was at the other end of the old Luftwaffe building, a good three hundred metres from Dallin’s. Which was just as well — next week was quite soon enough for the resumption of his career as an American agent. Shchepkin had not said how much Russell should tell the Americans about Friday’s scheme to torpedo Nemedin, and it seemed simpler to get that behind him before meeting Dallin.

Sometimes he thought he should write it all down as he went along. Like a paper trail in a maze.

David Franks, at least, conformed to expectations — he looked and acted like other New York Jews of Russell’s acquaintance — dark and bespectacled, with a restless intelligence just on the cusp of neurotic. His office might well have been the fullest in Berlin, in terms of both paper and future prospects. Towers of completed Fragebogen rose from the floor like Franks’ hometown skyscrapers.

Isendahl had already rung to introduce him, which saved a lot of explanation. It turned out the Nazi records he needed — the ones discovered in September and subsequently brought to Berlin — were held at a villa on the edge of the Grunewald. Franks commuted between the two, checking the Fragebogen against the official files, and as luck would have it he was on his way there. ‘Wilhelm didn’t give me any names, only the general idea,’ he told Russell as they walked down to the jeep. ‘But I’m happy to take all the help I can get. There are enough of our people who don’t give a damn.’

‘And why’s that?’

‘Two reasons. One, they’ve decided that fighting the Russians has top priority, and any enemy of theirs is a friend of ours. Two, anti-Semitism’s not just a German disease.’

They drove down Argentinische Allee, passing the Onkel Toms Hutte U-Bahn station before turning west towards the forest. The villa was in Wasserkafersteigstrasse, a cul-de-sac ending in trees. A shiny new barbedwire fence surrounded the complex, and two sentries guarded the gate.

‘Someone cares,’ Russell murmured.

‘So they should. The stuff in here will determine Germany’s future.’ He turned to Russell. ‘Actually, they’re pretty lax. They know me, so they probably won’t even ask to see your papers, but if they do, I’ll tell them you’re helping me with some local knowledge. Okay?’

In the event, they were just waved through. Down in the over-stuffed vault, Franks collected the relevant file cards, and Russell transcribed any additional details that they contained. All the names they had gathered from their Jewish witnesses were there save one. There was no card for a Fehse, Reinhard or otherwise.

‘Why would it be missing?’ Russell asked.

‘No reason. If it’s not here, there isn’t one.’

‘Maybe someone just walked in and took it.’

‘I doubt it. They may not always check papers at the gate, but they would if the face was unfamiliar.’

That, Russell thought, begged all sorts of questions.

He spent the afternoon writing, and was watching the street for the Soviet bus when Scott Dallin turned in through the gate. ‘Let’s walk,’ were the American’s first words. He was seething with anger.

Russell put on his coat, wrote a short note to Effi, and went out to join him. It hadn’t snowed that day, but the temperature seemed about right, and the sky seemed to be slowly filling with the stuff. Dallin didn’t say another word until they reached the corner, and started down Konigin-Luise-Strasse in the direction of the Grunewald.

‘You remember me saying that our two intelligence organisations would operate best if they maintained their separate identities?’

‘Something along those lines.’ This was obviously a rather big bee in Dallin’s bonnet.

‘But we do have to get on with each other.’

‘I wish you luck.’

‘It’s nothing to do with luck. It’s about not crapping in each other’s garden.’

‘I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about,’ Russell said, although a suspicion was growing.

‘I’ve spent half the morning on the line to Washington, listening to some Ivy League asshole tick me off for messing with Sherman Crosby’s plan to see off the Russians. Now do you know what I’m talking about?’

‘Not exactly.’

They crossed Kronprinzenallee and started up the lane which led into the trees.

‘The black marketeer who you thought was responsible for your friend Kuzorra’s imprisonment…’

‘And his death.’

‘You’re to leave him alone.’

‘Why the hell should I?’

Dallin stopped and turned to face Russell. ‘Because I goddamn tell you to,’ he almost shouted. ‘And if that’s not enough, because he’s working for us. In fact I’m reliably informed that he’s one of our key people in this whole goddamn city.’

The American losing his temper helped Russell keep his. ‘What does “reliably informed” mean? Who told you, and how do you know you can trust them? I can prove that Fehse — that’s Geruschke’s real name — ran the holding centre in Leipzig that shipped all the local Jews to Auschwitz, even those that bribed him not to with money or sexual favours. He’s a drug-dealer and a pimp. He’s been stockpiling insulin to push up the price while children are dying of diabetes. The Jews he supposedly helps are ex-Nazis with stolen Jewish identities…’ He broke off to let a worried-looking German hurry by with his dog.

‘Even if all that were true…’

‘Why the hell would I make it up!?’

Now Russell’s explosion calmed Dallin down. ‘Even if all that were true, apparently we need him. You can’t always choose your allies — we just fought a war with the Reds, for Chrissake. And I won’t be telling you again. Leave the man alone, however big a bastard he is. Don’t go near him, don’t write about him, don’t pass the story on — we’ll know if you do, and nothing will make it into print. Forget about him. For your own sake as much as your country’s.’

‘For my own sake?’

‘According to Crosby, Geruschke was ready to kill you once, but agreed to let you go when they told him you were working for us. Crosby had no need to do that, and I doubt he would again.’

‘So if next time Geruschke really does kill me, he won’t get so much as a slap on the wrist?’

‘There won’t be a next time. Get it into your head — he’s off-limits. If he’s as evil as you say he is, then he’ll end up paying one way or another. Leave vengeance to God.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Well, if Geruschke doesn’t kill you, Crosby probably will. And if by some miracle you survive, you’ll certainly be off my payroll. But I’m assuming you do want to serve your country. That’s what you told Lindenberg in London.’

‘Of course I do,’ Russell said automatically. What would happen to him and Shchepkin if the Americans kicked him out? What would Nemedin do come to that? His use to the Soviets would be over, and he couldn’t imagine their gratefully letting him go. A silver-plated bullet seemed likelier than a gold watch.

He needed to think. He needed to talk to Effi, although he guessed what she would say — that Kuzorra had saved his life, and wouldn’t want him throwing it away over someone like Fehse. Which was probably true. But the detective deserved some sort of justice, and so did Fehse’s other victims.

‘It sticks in the throat,’ he told Dallin, ‘but you’ve made yourself clear. I’ll let him be.’

Effi was still not back when Russell got home, but Thomas was ensconced in his study, having just returned from his family Christmas in the countryside. Hanna and Lotte were following on after the New Year, which seemed reason enough for a celebratory drink. ‘I bought it from an American soldier on the platform at Erfurt,’ Thomas explained, as he opened the bottle of bourbon. ‘For a king’s ransom, but I felt it would help me deal with the Russians.’

‘You’re not going to waste it on them?’

‘No, of course not. Each time they almost drive me to distraction I shall remember that this little beauty is waiting at home.’

‘It won’t last long then.’

‘Probably not.’ He filled two short glasses that Russell recognised from pre-war days, and handed one over. ‘Gesundheit!’

‘Gesundheit,’ Russell echoed. The bourbon tasted wonderful. ‘So you had a good Christmas?’

‘Wonderful. For all the reasons you’d expect. And it was so good to get away from ruins for a while. How was your trip to Vienna?’

‘That was just the beginning.’ He filled Thomas in on what had happened since, concluding with the news that Miriam’s husband and children were his latest lodgers.

‘So Leon and Esther have grandchildren,’ Thomas murmured. ‘Which doesn’t bring Miriam back, but…’

The way he said it drew Russell’s eyes to the black-framed photograph of Joachim on the mantelpiece.

‘He’d have been twenty-four in a few weeks’ time,’ Thomas said in an even voice. ‘Now that the war’s over, with all that we know of what happened in the East, his death seems… I don’t know, even crueller, I suppose. I only hope he did nothing terrible. Nothing he had to take with him’

‘Joachim was a good boy,’ Russell said, acutely conscious of how inadequate it sounded.

Thomas just nodded. ‘Most of them were.’ He managed a sad smile. ‘I don’t want to live in the past — that’s not really life, is it? But sometimes… You know, when I got back to Berlin in August I borrowed one of the firm’s Russian lorries and drove out to where Ilse and Matthias died. I don’t know why really. I just felt like sharing the last things they’d seen. And it was such a beautiful stretch of road, especially in summer. I got out and walked around, and I started thinking about when we were young, Ilse and I, and all the good times we had growing up. She could drive me mad, but God I loved her. I remembered her bringing you home for the first time — an Englishman for heaven’s sake, and an even more self-righteous communist than she was. But Ilse insisted that we get along, and in the end she had her way. And when the two of you split up, she was determined that it shouldn’t affect our friendship, and she made damn sure that it didn’t.’

‘I never knew that.’

‘Ilse was special.’

‘That I did know.’

Thomas shook his head and reached for a refill. ‘I wonder what she’d think of the family firm printing German schoolbooks written by the Soviets.’

‘She’d appreciate the irony.’

Thomas grunted. ‘I read today that Hitler was evil incarnate, but that Stalin is God’s gift to the working man.’

‘Well, 50 % wasn’t such a bad mark when I was at school.’

It started snowing around noon the next day, and persisted through the afternoon. By the time Russell stepped down onto the Jannowitzbrucke platform, several centimetres had fallen, and descending the outside staircase required considerable caution. That danger averted, he walked slowly westwards along the shell-gapped Spree promenade, eyes peering out through the curtain of snow for any lurking figures. There were none on either side of the yellow-lit shop that Shchepkin had specified, but having passed it on the other side of the road he hesitated before turning back. Shchepkin’s reasoning had been clear enough, but that only mattered if his deductions were correct, and Russell wasn’t even sure what they were. He had chosen to trust the Russian, but not with any great confidence. Even now, the impulse to walk away was only restrained by his complete lack of an alternative strategy.

He had told Effi only that he was picking something up. If things went wrong, she would know that he’d fallen foul of the Soviets, but not how or why. He should have told her the full story; his only reason for not doing so was his own awareness of how flimsy it all sounded.

There was no point in putting it off any longer. He patted the pocketed gun for reassurance, and crossed the empty Rolandufer. Through the door of the shop he could see the proprietor, an old man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose, sitting behind his threadbare counter. He looked up as Russell entered, and shook out the Soviet-sponsored newspaper that he was reading.

‘Do you have a package for…’ Russell began, then realised he’d forgotten the pre-arranged name. ‘Liefke,’ he suddenly remembered, and almost wished he hadn’t.

The old man found this lapse amusing, but pulled a thickish envelope out from under the counter and held out both hands, one with the package, the other for payment. Russell gave him the cigarettes, stuffed the envelope inside his coat, and let himself back out into the snow. There was a couple walking past on the other side, but Rolandufer seemed otherwise empty.

He headed back towards the station, and gingerly climbed the slippery steps to the westbound platform. There were several other people waiting for a train, but none seemed to be watching him. He turned and looked out across the snow-shrouded Spree at the sparsely lit wasteland beyond. After dark this section of Berlin was about as welcoming as the Minotaur’s cave.

But so far so good. No one had followed him up the steps, and a train was visible in the distance, its headlights gliding round the elevated curve. Another fifteen minutes and he would be at Zoo Station, and in the relative safety of the British sector.

The carriages that pulled in to the snow-covered platform were fuller than he expected. Stepping in through the sliding doors, Russell turned right in search of an empty seat, and found one near the end. As the train pulled out he glanced sideways through the window of the connecting doors, and there was Nemedin, shaking the snow from his hat.

Russell quickly looked away, cold sweat prickling on his back.

His first coherent thought was that he and Shchepkin were done for. His second was to search, like a guilty schoolboy, for some plausible excuse. Could he walk up to the NKVD man and hand him the papers? ‘Oh, I was just looking for you; I got a tip-off that someone had stolen your personnel file and left it in a shop, and I knew you’d want it back.’

Ridiculous. And he was willing to bet that the envelope in his pocket was singularly devoid of personnel files. If Nemedin had known everything in advance, he’d had ample time to remove the incriminating material and replace it with scrap paper. Hadleigh was waiting in vain.

The train was pulling into Alexanderplatz Station, and when the doors opened it took all Russell’s strength not to run howling into the snow. Think, he told himself. What could he do? There was no point in running — if Nemedin knew about Shchepkin’s scheme, then he had enough on them both already. So why was the bastard stringing things out by following him? To find out where Russell was taking the package? Perhaps, although a penchant for sadism seemed just as likely.

The train jerked into motion once more. There had been no shared glances, so Nemedin was probably unaware that Russell had seen him. But how did that help? What could? He and Shchepkin were finished. Unless.

It was him or Nemedin, and he did have the gun. Could he kill the Georgian in cold blood?

If he could manage it, he could live with it.

He would have to lure him somewhere. Away from people. Somewhere quiet, but not so secluded that Nemedin would smell a rat.

The train was pulling in to Borse Station. Where should he get off? He hadn’t been near Borse since April, and all he could see from the window was ruins. Friedrichstrasse was next, and that was always crowded. But Lehrter Station… He could lead Nemedin up past the railway yards, along the streets he’d walked the other week to Hunder Zembski’s garage. There had to be somewhere he could mount an ambush.

It sounded like a plan, but so had Schlieffen’s. He resisted the urge to sneak a look at his pursuer, and tried not to convey the anxiety that was fluttering in his stomach. Perhaps Nemedin had got off. Perhaps his presence at Jannowitzbrucke had been the cruellest of coincidences.

No. He could feel the man’s eyes on him.

The train stopped at Friedrichstrasse, where many got out and many got on. As the doors began to close he caught a glimpse of the snow streaming down through the shattered roof.

He was at the right end of the train for the Invalidenstrasse exit at Lehrter. As the Charite Hospital loomed on the right he got to his feet and went to the door, giving Nemedin plenty of warning.

Once on the platform, he strode rapidly towards the exit without looking back. The snow seemed heavier, a diaphanous curtain of small flakes. Even if Nemedin lost visual contact, he had only to follow the footsteps.

Russell consciously slowed his pace. He couldn’t raise doubts — he needed the Georgian to feel safe, until he had him at his mercy. Not that any would be forthcoming.

He reached the Invalidenstrasse exit, and turning right caught a hint of movement behind him.

A couple of street lamps were burning, and the white flakes drifting past them reminded Russell of a snowglobe he’d once been given for Christmas. There were moving lights in the distance, and the sound of laughter closer at hand. A short way up on the other side, the silhouette of the district court building marked the entrance to Heidestrasse.

He angled his way across the wide boulevard and slipped round the corner. There was only darkness ahead, and he knew this had to be the place. Nemedin would be crazy to follow him further. The man I shall kill, he thought. The title of Effi’s film.

He took the gun from his pocket, checked that it was ready, and stood there waiting in the falling snow.

One, two, three… he began to wonder if he’d imagined it all.

Four, five, six… would he soon be laughing at his own paranoia?

Seven…

Nemedin came round the corner. Slowly, cautiously, but without a gun in his hand. The faint smile vanished the moment he saw Russell, or more particularly his gun.

Russell pulled the trigger, aiming for the heart, and the echoing crash seemed, for an instant, to stop the snow from falling.

Nemedin fell backwards, a look of surprise on his face.

Russell stepped forward, steeled himself, and fired again. As he stood looking down, a snowflake landed on a glazed-over eye.

He was wondering what, if anything, he should do with the body when his ears picked up the sound of an approaching vehicle. Two headlights were growing brighter on Invalidenstrasse. It sounded like a jeep. The Red Army.

He began walking back towards the station, hugging the side of the buildings. Would the soldiers notice the body? And if so, would they bother to check who it was? He was about two hundred metres from the Stadtbahn station entrance, and he still had the wide and empty road to cross. The sector border was around here somewhere, but he was damned if he knew exactly where. And who would arrest the Soviets for trespassing?

He heard the jeep behind him start to slow, then suddenly rev up again. There was no time to cross the road. He had to get off it. As he ran towards the railway bridge, a turning appeared on his right, a road running down through the bomb-twisted gates to the distant yard and sheds. The road itself looked depressingly straight, so instead he plunged down the snow-covered embankment. Losing his footing, he rolled the rest of the way, and slammed into a post that was half-concealed by the snow. As he got painfully to his feet, he heard movement on the road above, a squealing of brakes and urgent voices. Somewhere behind him a bullet struck metal.

He was only a few metres from the road bridge, and Jesse Owens would have envied his sprint into the shadows that lay beneath it. A few hundred metres up the tracks several glowing fires were visible — the refugee camp around the main line station. He started running in that direction, and was daring to hope that the Russians had given up on him when another bullet hissed past his head. Glancing back through the veil of snow he could see two figures on the tracks, and two more on the bridge.

The next few shots were less accurate, and a line of empty cattle cars offered the chance to duck out of sight. He ran along behind the train, and as he neared the end, realised he had an audience — there were people living in the last few cars. He tossed his gun under one of them, and slowed to a walk as he passed under the elevated Stadtbahn and approached the main line platforms. Now there were lots of people, sitting or lying under the splintered canopies, or gathered round a line of makeshift braziers. As he walked up the platform he became conscious of a rising sound behind him, a strange blend of fear, surprise and loathing, as news spread among the German refugees that the hated Red Army had somehow caught up with them.

Russell walked on, past the room where he and Effi had found Torsten and the children, and out onto the old concourse, where UNRRA was serving watery soup to whoever wanted it. He took a bowl and sat with it, keeping one eye open for the Russians, waiting for the shock to subside. His heart was still drumming inside his chest, and it was all he could do not to burst into tears. When the thought crossed his mind that he wanted his mother, he almost laughed out loud.

Taking one life shouldn’t feel so huge, not when a war had killed millions. But by God it did.

At least the Russians had thought better of invading the station, and after half an hour’s wait he judged it safe to take his leave. After consigning the envelope to a convenient brazier he walked back up to the Stadtbahn platform which he’d left an hour and a killing before.

A train was pulling in as he reached the top of the steps, and he squeezed himself aboard. As it rattled along above Luneburger Strasse he stood, face pressed against the window, his mind a foggy blank. At Zoo Station he sleepwalked his way down to the familiar buffet, and joined the queue before he realised that coffee was not what he needed. The first bar he came to supplied a ludicrously expensive schnapps which he downed in a single swallow. He felt like repeating the trick with the second, but carried it instead to a table, and sank wearily into a chair.

He had just killed a man in cold blood, and the most that he felt was a lack of surprise. It had been coming for years, he thought. Even the identity of the victim seemed part of the some strange logic — not a Nazi, but a high-ranking member of the NKVD, a guardian of the Revolution that had once so inspired him, that had changed his life, found him the mother of his son, brought him to Germany.

Shchepkin would understand the warped inevitability of it all, he thought. But no one else.

There was no use trying to explain this to Effi — she just didn’t think that way. He would tell her he had killed Nemedin in self-defence. That if he hadn’t, Nemedin would have killed him, and Shchepkin, and most likely Shchepkin’s wife and daughter. And sooner rather than later.

A simpler story, and also true.

But there’d been so many other moments of choice. He found himself remembering his and Effi’s day-trip to the Harz Mountains six summers earlier. That was when they’d decided that some sort of resistance to the Nazis was the least they could live with. Had they made the right decision? Would the world really have been that different if they’d put their consciences in hibernation for a few years? People now dead — like the Ottings in Stettin — might still be alive. He and Effi, he and Paul, would not have spent more than three years apart. He would never have met Nemedin, or stood above his corpse in the snow.

But good things had also flowed from that decision. If his own contribution had often felt marginal, he had no doubt that Effi had saved lives.

And Rosa, he thought. A random consequence of the path they had chosen, yet with more power to change their own lives than any twist of political fate. A fresh infusion of innocence to replenish their rapidly diminishing supply. And he missed the girl, much more than he’d expected he would.

‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Effi asked him, as they set out the following morning.

He had told her everything the night before, and she’d been less shocked, at least on the surface, than he’d expected. But he was still afraid of catching a new look in her eyes, one that said she saw him differently, that she was disappointed in him. ‘I’m fine,’ he told her.

She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, but didn’t pursue the matter. She was sure there were things she should say, but hadn’t yet worked out what they were. Their business that morning seemed safer ground. ‘What if Otto 1 — whatever his real name is — tells us to get lost, and goes straight to Fehse? Won’t that bring the wrath of Dallin down on our heads?’

‘It might, but what choice have we got? We’ll just have to convince him that we’re not after him. That talking is his best option.’

‘Okay.’

They waited an age for a bus, and had to stand throughout the journey. Yesterday’s snow was already melting, pools of water forming round the dust-choked drains on the Ku’damm. The only sign of life at the Honey Trap was the usual crowd of boys scouring the ground for cigarette stubs.

Alighting at the Memorial Church, they walked up past the ruined zoo, skirted the western end of the park, and crossed canal and river. It was only a few minutes past nine when they reached Solinger Strasse, and climbed the stairs to Otto 1’s flat.

Their first two knocks met with no response, the third with an angry shout, the fourth with sounds of movement. ‘Who is it?’ the familiar voice shouted, whereupon Russell held a finger to his lips. When a second enquiry went unanswered, the door began to open, and Russell gave it a helping shove, throwing the opener backwards.

‘We need to talk to you,’ Russell said mildly, as Otto got angrily to his feet. Effi closed the door.

‘Get the hell out of here,’ Otto told them without much conviction.

‘We’re sorry to bust in on you like this,’ Russell continued, ‘but, like I said, we just need a short conversation.’

‘I’ve got nothing to talk to you about.’

‘Oh, but you have. We know that Otto Pappenheim is not your real name.’

‘Of course it is.’

‘And we know you’re not Jewish.’

‘Of course I am.’

Russell sighed. ‘Look, we don’t care what identity you use. If you like the name Otto Pappenheim, fine. We’re not planning to tell anyone who you really are, but we do need to know what happened to the real Otto, the one whose papers you ended up with.’

‘Why should I tell you anything?’

‘Human decency ring a bell? A girl who wants to know what happened to her father?’

The man just shook his head.

‘How about your own skin?’ He took out the photograph which included the fake Otto, and held it up for inspection. ‘If we show this round the Jewish DP camps someone will pick you out from somewhere, and you’ll be finished. So why not just tell us what we want to know, and we’ll just go away and leave you in peace.’

The man gave him a calculating look. ‘How do I know you’ll do that?’

Russell shook his head. ‘You don’t, but I will. Assuming you’re not Josef Mengele.’

‘Who’s he? I was just a guard.’

‘Ah, that’s a start. Where?’

‘At Grosse Hamburger Strasse. Just a guard,’ he repeated. ‘I was moved there from Moabit — I didn’t have any choice in the matter.’

‘Just obeying orders.’

‘Exactly. And all these people nowadays who say we should have refused — I’d like to see what they would have done.’

‘I know what you mean. So where did you get Otto Pappenheim’s papers from?’

The man hesitated, then seemed to realise he’d gone too far to stop. ‘He was just another Jew. The Greifers brought him in after one of them recognised him.’

‘And then what?’

‘The usual. They knew he had a wife and daughter, and they wanted him to give them up. They beat him for days but he wouldn’t say a word. Not a single word. Some of them were like that. Not many, but some.’

‘What happened to him?’ Effi asked, speaking for the first time.

‘He killed himself. Managed to cut his own throat somehow — they found him one morning in a pool of blood. No one could work out how he’d done it.’

‘And how did you get his papers?’

‘When the Russians got to the Oder everyone knew it was over, and we — all of us who worked there — we went through the papers of those who had died and picked a set with the right sort of age and physical details.’ He saw the look on Russell’s face. ‘You said you would leave me in peace.’

‘So I did. Where were they buried — the ones who died?’

‘The first few were buried in a corner of the Prenzlauer Cemetery, but people objected, so they had to be dug up and burnt. After that they were all burnt.’ He wrinkled his nose as if remembering the smell.

Russell gave Effi a questioning look, which she returned with a shake of her head. ‘Then we’ll be on our way. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but at least we don’t have to meet again.’

They made their way back down the stairs, and walked to the bottom of Solinger Strasse. ‘I shouldn’t be happy,’ Effi said slowly, breaking the silence. ‘Not after what we’ve just heard. But I can’t help it. I feel like… like I can stop holding my breath. Does that make me a terrible person?’

‘Of course not. And Rosa will be proud of her father, when she finds out who he was. And if he knew about it, he’d be glad that his daughter found you.’

‘Found us.’

‘Yes.’

After skirting the park and walking down past the empty cages, they stopped off at the Zoo Station buffet. As Russell queued for their drinks he decided to honour his word, and not turn the fake Otto in. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt almost grateful to the man, for preserving the real Otto’s memory, for giving Effi the certainty she craved.

Fehse though was another matter, and hearing the story of the real Otto’s death had helped Russell make up his mind. Carrying their coffees back to the table he knew what he would do.

As he put down Effi’s cup, he realised she was crying. ‘I thought I’d lost my chance,’ she half sobbed. ‘When I was alone in the war, I started regretting that I — that we — had never had a child, and with each year that went by it seemed less and less likely that we ever would. And then Rosa arrived and I couldn’t believe my luck. I mean, I really couldn’t believe it — I thought someone was bound to take her away.’ She looked up at him, smiling through the tears. ‘But there isn’t anyone, is there? She’s ours.’