Masaryk Station

Stefan Utermann

It was almost one in the morning when Russell was jerked from a doze by the loud and angry rumble of his train on the Sava bridge outside Belgrade. He had left Trieste at seven that morning, looking forward to the three-hundred-mile journey, but a tortoise-like crawl up from the coast had been followed by lengthy waits at Ljubljana and Zagreb, and the long descent of the Sava valley had felt a whole lot longer when the restaurant car inexplicably closed some six hours short of the capital.

As he walked out of the terminus, the sight of a dozen hotels settled the battle between hunger and tiredness. He tried three before he found a conscious night clerk, and happily accepted a key without first checking the room. As far as he could see, no fleas were jumping for joy on the yellow sheets, and the sash window sprang open with only a modest application of brute force. Within a few minutes Russell was fast asleep.

He was woken by the sun streaming in through the curtainless windows, and lay there thanking the stars that nothing had bitten him during the night. He felt like a bath, but one look at the shared facilities down the corridor persuaded him to wait. After getting dressed he made his way down the rickety stairs, paid the exorbitant bill, and ventured out into the city. The sky was mostly blue, the air already warm for that time of the morning. The square in front of the station was busy, and the number of salesmen offering wares seemed high for a communist country. Maybe Tito’s Yugoslavia really was different, the way Strohm kept hoping it was.

On his last and only other visit to Belgrade two years earlier Russell had stayed at the Majestic, which had seemed more than adequate. He thought he remembered the way from the station, but the first landmark he recognised was the Royal Palace, which had been rebuilt since his last visit, though presumably not for royalty. A uniformed man loitering outside gave him a suspicious look, but then provided directions amenably enough.

It looked as if Belgrade was doing better than Berlin when it came to reconstruction-in 1946 every street had seemed full of gaps, but now they were few and far between. And the people seemed younger than they did in Berlin or Trieste, although why that should be he had no idea-among the Allied countries, only the Soviet Union had lost a higher proportion of its population.

He found the Majestic in its small corner square, and happily spent Uncle Sam’s money on a suite at the front with a bath. His rooms were clean and almost over-furnished, the water wonderfully hot. After consigning his travelling clothes to the laundry service, he went out in search of breakfast, zigzagging north towards the Marketplatz and a particular cafe he remembered. It was on the second zig that he realised he was being followed. A man in his thirties, in a grey suit, white shirt and black trilby.

The cafe was still there, with tables outside for the taking. After sitting there for a minute or so, he casually scanned the square, and found his shadow apparently reading a paper outside another establishment. The coffee, when it came, was surprising good, the ham and eggs quite excellent. And the general atmosphere seemed surprisingly relaxed, less gloomy than Berlin, less surreal than Trieste.

After paying his check, he walked on towards the Kalemegdan, whose surrounding gardens offered a pleasant spot for reflection, and found the seat he had sat in two years earlier, in the shadow of the stone citadel, high above the confluence of the Sava and Danube. Then all but one bridge had been down, but another two had since been restored, and, like the two rivers, were busy with traffic.

Then, as now, he had come as a journalist, but this time appearances were more deceptive. These days the Yugoslavs would suspect any visiting pressman of working for an intelligence service, whether full-time or part-time hardly mattered. And since it was the Americans who had persuaded the Yugoslavs to let him in, the latter would assume that Washington employed him in some form or other. Which of course they did.

The Americans, as Youklis had explained at their last convivial rendezvous, wanted to know how things were going between Tito and Stalin. Were they about to fall out, or had they done so already? If and when they did, Youklis and friends presumably had no intention of supporting one group of communists against another. They would just dump as much oil on troubled waters as they could.

All of which was straightforward enough for a journalist of Russell’s experience. The American’s other request was likely to be more problematic, because Youklis didn’t seem to know that much about the man he wanted Russell to contact. Zoran Pograjac had fought with Mihajlovic’s Cetniks and survived-as Mihajlovic had not-a post-war charge of collaborating with the Germans. He had apparently kept his head down since, but Russell found it hard to believe that someone with a history like Pograjac’s wasn’t being watched by the communist authorities.

The Soviets had been more reasonable in their requests. They simply hoped that Russell’s American backing would encourage the more anti-Soviet Yugoslavs to open up in private about their future plans. At their meeting in Trieste-convened in a small square beneath an unlikely statue of Aphrodite-Comrade Serov had presented Russell with a list of those they wanted him to interview. All but one were possible traitors to the working class. The exception-Vukasin Nedic-was a friend of the Soviet Union, but he was being closely watched by the Yugoslav authorities. Russell should insist on interviewing Nedic, and if the Yugoslavs tried to refuse, he should say that he could only write his article if given access to all the different points of view. ‘They will be keen,’ Serov assured him.

When they eventually met, Russell’s use of the phrase ‘the weather’s been unusual today’ would tell Nedic that he could be trusted. Russell would then be given an up-to-the-minute estimate of the current situation, and the list that Nedic was compiling of those Yugoslav communists who could still be relied upon to see things from an internationalist perspective.

‘Don’t you have an Embassy in Belgrade?’ Russell had asked the Russian.

‘Of course,’ Serov had replied. ‘But we never interfere in a fraternal party’s internal affairs.’

Well, Russell would go and see Nedic if the Yugoslavs let him, hear what he had to say, and make damn sure he didn’t get caught with a list of would-be traitors, either by destroying it straight away, or voluntarily handing it in to the authorities. Hearing Shchepkin’s disappointed ‘tsk’ was much less painful than quarrying marble on Naked Island.

Mihajlovic’s man needed treating with even more circumspection. The Soviets expected to be disappointed-the whole bloody world was against them, and they were used to it-but the Americans took it all as a personal affront. If he wanted to see Berlin anytime soon, he would have to make an effort, or at least give a decent impression. But oh so carefully. If Pograjac wasn’t just a CIC fantasy, if he really was a bona fide opponent of the regime, then consorting with him was asking for trouble. Russell could still remember the defendants at the Moscow show trials falling over themselves to admit contacts with foreign agents. ‘Shoot the mad dogs!’ had been Prosecutor Vyshinsky’s catch phrase.

He glanced across at his shadow, who was gazing out at the river. The man turned his head, as if conscious he was being watched, and when Russell gave him a big smile, managed a wry one in return. A small triumph for humanity.

A young couple walked past deep in conversation, reminding him that he didn’t speak the local lingo. A significant handicap in this sort of work. He couldn’t even read the damn newspaper-for all he knew, the two parties had resolved all their differences while he was on his train, and Tito and Stalin were busy composing love letters to each other. He needed to talk to someone-there had to be some foreign journalists in Belgrade who spoke one of his languages. In 1946 the Majestic had been full of them.

He walked back there, shadow in tow. The desk clerk spoke enough German to understand his question, and told him that two other journalists were staying at the hotel, one from England and one from France. The former was called Ronald Hitchen, and the clerk thought he worked for The Times. Neither the name, nor, later that evening, the face, jogged Russell’s memory.

He was sitting in the almost empty hotel bar when a young man with tousled brown hair and a pleasant boyish face came up and introduced himself. ‘I’m Hitchen. I hear you’ve been asking for me.’

‘What can I get you?’

‘Oh, I’m cultivating an addiction to slivovitz.’

‘There are worse things.’

They introduced themselves. Hitchen, it turned out, was also a freelance, but found that people who thought he worked for The Times were generally more helpful than people who knew he didn’t. He had been in Belgrade for a week, and had already talked to quite a few people. ‘I came with a lot of introductions,’ he admitted. ‘My uncle was part of the British mission to Yugoslavia during the war, and made quite a few friends among Tito’s people.’

Gold, Russell thought, I’ve struck gold. He already had a broad understanding of the differences between Moscow and Belgrade-they arose, like the differences between Moscow and the KPD back home, from a basic unwillingness on Stalin’s part to allow the so-called fraternal parties any responsibility for their own affairs. Like the KPD, the Yugoslav Communist Party knew better than Moscow what local conditions required, but it was much better placed to say so. Unlike the KPD, the YCP had largely liberated its own country, and those Red Army units that had passed through Yugoslavia had long since left. If not universally popular, the YCP could, alone in eastern Europe, count on the support of a clear majority. If the Soviets picked a fight with Tito, they wouldn’t find it easy.

It had, however, taken them a while to work this out. Russell knew from Shchepkin that late in March the CPSU had sent the YCP an official letter of complaint. According to Moscow, the Yugoslavs had been denigrating the Soviet Union with claims that it was no longer socialist. Which of course was the sort of nonsense you could expect from a party falling well short of genuine Bolshevism.

The YCP had responded on the 13^th of April. They were Bolsheviks, and they did love the Soviet Union, but they admitted to loving their own country, too. It had seemed to Shchepkin, and seemed to Russell, a fairly placatory missive, but what neither knew, and what Hitchen now told him, was that Tito was simply keeping things sweet until he pounced on the local fifth column. And that had happened while Russell was on his train-the Yugoslav version of the MGB had arrested a slew of Party members who put loyalty to Moscow above loyalty to Tito.

If Nedic had been one of them, Russell thought, then he wouldn’t have to worry about the wretched list. But Hitchen didn’t recognise the name.

‘Are they really spoiling for a fight?’ he asked the young journalist. ‘It’s not just a minor squabble?’

‘Oh no. They’ve really had it with the Russians. First the Red Army raped its way across the country, then the Soviets insisted on setting up joint stock companies to steal them blind, and then they flooded the place with MGB to watch the locals. The last straw was claiming that the Red Army had done all of the heavy fighting, and that Tito and Co only played a minor role in defeating the Germans. Tito wasn’t having that. The medals he wears makes you think he’d liberated most of Europe.’

‘And they’re not afraid that the Red Army will make another visit?’

‘A little, perhaps. But I think the Yugoslavs have got it sussed-the Soviets must know it wouldn’t be a walkover, and they can’t afford a real fight, either politically or militarily. I think they’ll just give Tito the boot, and nail down the lid on the other satraps. They’re all easy to reach.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Russell conceded. ‘I don’t suppose the Soviets have commented on the arrests?’

‘Not yet. But I expect someone in Moscow’s trawling Lenin’s speeches for appropriate insults.’

The last remaining scenes of Anna Hofmann were shot on Tuesday morning, and lunch turned into a farewell banquet, which lasted most of the afternoon. There was enough alcohol on offer to refloat the Bismarck, and the hastily-erected picnic tables literally creaked under mounds of food. DEFA’s Soviet supporters were clearly keen to prove that its Hollywood-banked competitors hadn’t cornered the market in excessive rewards.

Effi, like almost everyone else, spent the afternoon surreptitiously slipping delicacies into her bag for future family consumption. She was just hiding away a couple of particularly tasty almond biscuits when the Soviet Propaganda Minister loomed in front of her.

‘Fraulein Koenen,’ Tulpanov greeted her warmly in German. ‘They are good, aren’t they?’ he added with a twinkle.

‘I’m taking them home for my daughter,’ Effi explained, unabashed.

‘Of course. I was sorry to hear that you decided against A Walk into the Future.’

‘Yes, well …’

‘I realise that the script was rather crude, compared to some of DEFA’s more recent offerings.’

‘My feelings exactly.’

‘So you haven’t turned against DEFA?’

Effi managed to look surprised. ‘Of course not.’

‘Well, I’m glad to hear that. And it’s good to see you looking so, may I say, young?’

Effi smiled. ‘I won’t complain.’

‘Well then. I expect we’ll meet again at The Peacock’s Fan premiere in a few weeks’ time. I went to an advanced screening, and I think your performance is really very special.’

‘Thank you,’ Effi said. She had made that film in the previous autumn, and if she said so herself, she had never been better.

He bowed slightly and moved on.

They really were making an effort, Effi thought. They needed to. The alcohol had livened things up a little, but the gathering still felt more like a wake than anything else. The cast and crew knew they’d made a decent film, but it was hard to celebrate that fact when it looked like being the last, at least for a while. Those who had signed on for A Walk into the Future were almost apologetic, stressing their families’ need to eat or their hope that DEFA’s fall from cinematic grace would be a swiftly passing phase. No one believed the film itself was worth making.

The mood on the ride home to the British sector was a sombre affair, and when Effi waved the others off on Carmer Strasse for the last time, the sense of liberation that usually followed the completion of a movie was noticeably absent. She had made half a dozen films with DEFA over the past two years, all of them entertaining, yet also mature reflections on her country and its recent history. She liked some of her performances better than others, of course, but when it came to the movies, she was proud of them all. Amid all the hardship and horrors of the war’s aftermath, something good had been made in Berlin, and knowing it was over was a bitter pill to swallow.

The previous day’s Soviet decision to restrict all parcel post between Berlin and the Western zones had provided Gerhard Strohm with a problem. Since the reason supplied to the angry Allies was the sudden and completely bogus unworthiness of the rolling stock in question, he could hardly leave the stock in plain sight. But what should he do with it? The Berlin sector wasn’t so well-endowed with stock that he could afford to hide it away, but if he shifted it into the Soviet zone some bright Red Army spark would send it all east for re-wheeling to the Russian gauge. And then the Soviets would announce that the parcel post was being restored, and where the hell would his trains be?

Relief arrived in the form of a summons from upstairs-Arnold Marohn wanted to see him.

The director lost no time in getting to the point. ‘I’ve been asked to loan you out for the day. You remember Stefan Utermann?’

‘Of course. We were both on the Stettin yards committee before the war. He was caught, and sent to Buchenwald.’

‘But you’ve seen him since.’

‘Only once or twice, a couple of years ago. He moved out to Rummelsburg when they started the repair works up again.’

‘But you’d call him a friend?’

‘A comrade.’ Which in the 1930s had probably meant more.

‘So he might take advice from you?’

Strohm grimaced. ‘On what?’

Marohn sighed. ‘He’s in dispute with our Soviet allies. The usual issue-one dismantling too many. Just between us, I don’t think the Russians have handled the matter that tactfully, but that’s the world we live in. And Utermann is being particularly obstinate.’

‘Why do the Russians care?’ Strohm wondered out loud. ‘Why don’t they just ignore him?’ The way they usually ignored KPD qualms, he thought to himself.

‘Apparently he’s made himself very popular with the workforce,’ Marohn said. ‘And the Party is anxious to avoid any demonstrations of anti-Russian feeling.’

‘Of course,’ Strohm said automatically. ‘Well, I’ll try of course, but it’s been a long time.’ And Utermann had seemed a different man after Buchenwald-still friendly enough, but wound a lot tighter.

‘Just do your best,’ Marohn told him. ‘And go today.’

‘Why the rush?’

‘The Russians want it settled.’

‘Say no more.’

It wasn’t a task he’d have chosen, but it felt good to be out the office. The white clouds gliding across the bright blue sky made him think of galleons, and one particular book from his American childhood. He wanted children of his own, and he thought Annaliese did too, though they’d never discussed it. But there was plenty of time, and things were bound to improve over the next few years.

The prospect cheered Strohm, as did the huge red flag in the distance, which fluttered over the Neukolln rathaus. It was almost twenty years since he and Utermann had fought all those running battles with the brownshirts on Berliner Strasse and Grenzallee, and in the end it was their flag which had carried the day.

It was gone noon when he reached the Rummelsburg repair shops. Utermann was out of his office, and the worker who pointed Strohm in the direction of the erecting shop wasn’t exactly friendly. Inside, he found two lines of locomotives under repair, and Utermann standing between them, talking to another railwayman. When he saw the suited Strohm striding towards him, his initial frown turned into a smile, but the frown came back when the pfennig dropped.

‘What’s a candidate member of the Central Committee doing here? As if I didn’t know.’

Strohm didn’t deny the inference. ‘But I’m also a friend,’ he said, offering his hand. And after only the slightest of hesitations, Utermann took it. ‘Where can we talk?’ Strohm asked.

‘Outside,’ Utermann decided. He led the way to a door at the end, and ushered Strohm through just as a freight train rumbled by. A stack of pallets outside the stores room provided somewhere to sit. ‘You’ll get your suit dirty,’ Utermann warned him with a grin.

‘Least of my worries.’ Strohm sat there for a moment, savouring the sights, sounds and smells of a working railway. This had been his life for more than a decade, and part of him still missed it.

‘Feeling nostalgic?’ Utermann asked.

‘Yes.’

‘It was simpler back then.’

‘Perhaps.’ Strohm looked at his old friend. ‘So, Stefan, tell me what’s happened. What’s at stake here?’

‘What do you know?’

‘Not a lot,’ Strohm told him. He wanted the story from Utermann. ‘That you’re refusing to accept a dismantling, and have enough support among the workforce to embarrass the Party leadership.’

‘That’s a fair enough summary, as far as it goes. It’s not just one dismantling, though. The Russians took everything last summer, and promised me that was it, that they wouldn’t be back. And I sold it to the workforce-that giving them the old works was paying our debt as Germans, and that now we could build a new one as comrades. And we did. We searched the whole bloody Russian zone for the machines we needed, begged, bought, even mounted a couple of robberies. You wouldn’t believe how hard everyone worked, what sacrifices they made. I didn’t believe it myself. We had everything up and working again in six months.’

‘And now they’ve come back again.’

‘Two weeks ago.’

‘It happens.’

‘Yeah, but they promised me it wouldn’t. And when I reminded the Russian bastard of that, he just laughed in my face.’

A suburban train rattled by, forcing a pause in the conversation. Utermann, Strohm saw, had one fist clenched.

‘So you refused?’ he said, once the noise of the train had abated.

‘I told him to fuck off,’ Utermann admitted.

‘Ah.’

‘The bastard just laughed again. And then he got really nasty. He told me that if I didn’t cooperate, the workers here would be given all the details of my payoks. He had a list of everything I’d received over the past two years-every last bar of chocolate and tin of ham.’ He looked across at Strohm. ‘You must get them, too. And bigger than mine, I would guess.’

‘I get them.’ Every high- or medium-ranking Party official did, along with government officials, scientists, even poets and artists. All those considered crucial to the building of a socialist Germany. One had been delivered to his apartment earlier that week, delighting Annaliese. He’d come home in the evening to find that she’d given half the stuff away to the old folk who lived in their block. That had pleased him enormously, but he still hated the whole idea. Annaliese had listened, agreed, and told him to let it go. ‘What can you do?’ she had asked. ‘Give it all back? What good would that do?’ None at all, as he well knew. He didn’t tell her, but it would actually do him harm. Giving them back would be seen as dissent.

‘So you know it’s not easy to refuse,’ Utermann said, as if reading his mind. ‘You give some away, and convince yourself you deserve a little pampering after all the years of struggle.’

‘Yes.’

‘But the workers don’t see it that way. They don’t see why anyone should be pampered in a socialist society. And they’re right. Even the Russian knows it, which is why he thinks I’ll swallow the medicine, for everyone’s sake. I’ll talk the workers around again, do his dirty work for him, and he won’t bring up my payoks. He’ll get his dismantling, the workers will think their interests are still being represented, and I’ll get to eat a bar of chocolate twice a month. Everyone’s happy.’

Strohm knew where this was going. ‘So you won’t change your mind.’

‘Enough is enough.’

‘I know what you mean. I do, really,’ he insisted in response to Utermann’s look. ‘But it won’t help. The dismantling will still go ahead, and you’ll get sacked. And the workers will lose a good representative.’

Utermann laughed. ‘Fat lot of good I’ve done them,’

‘The Russians won’t be here forever.’

‘You think not?’

‘Nothing lasts forever.

‘You really think I should give in?’

‘I don’t see how refusing helps anybody.’

‘Maybe so. I know the arguments for giving in. A situation like this-an individual conscience is neither here nor there. A bourgeois luxury. I know the words. I’ve been reading them since I was fourteen.’

Strohm was silent.

‘The Russian’s are coming back for my answer tomorrow.’

‘Save your strength for fights you might win,’ Strohm urged him.

Utermann gave him a wintry smile. ‘I might just do that.’ As they walked back through the erecting shop he apologised for the way he had greeted him. ‘It was good to see you,’ he said, as they parted.

In 1946 the Foreign Press Liaison office had been a few blocks south of the Majestic, but according to Hitchen the current version was in a brand-new building on Makedonska Street. Russell breakfasted in the hotel, and then took the short walk, wondering if these days the Yugoslavs were faithfully aping Soviet methods when it came to dealing with the outside world. The fact that the British had given substantial aid to the partisans during their war might have left them feeling grateful, but somehow he doubted it.

He had no trouble finding the right office, but for almost an hour that was the limit of his achievement. The long wait to see someone was unexplained, and of Soviet proportions. His eventual interviewer, far from being apologetic, seemed almost insulted by Russell’s temerity in still being there. He was a muscular young man with cold blue eyes, prominent lips and a very flat nose, wearing clothes which he seemed to find too tight-every few seconds he would insert a finger to loosen his collar. A uniform would have suited him better-he looked like he’d been fighting for years, and enjoying it no end. The cigarettes he seemed to be chain-smoking reminded Russell of Artucci’s.

No name was offered. He examined Russell’s list of desirable interviewees, grunting incredulously at some, merely shaking his head at others, then abruptly got up and left the office. Another long wait ensued. Russell was beginning to think he’d been either forgotten or simply abandoned when the man returned with his list. ‘Tomorrow,’ was the verdict. ‘Nine o’clock.’

‘Here?’

A grudging nod affirmed as much.

Next morning Russell was back, fully expecting another long wait. But this time he was seen without much delay, and by an official who seemed almost human. Older than yesterday’s version, he had warmer eyes, clothes that fitted, and even introduced himself. His name was Popovic.

He handed Russell a copy of his own list. Most of the names-including the well-known leaders like Tito, Kardelj, and Djilas-had been neatly crossed out, but three had ticks beside them: Marko Srskic, Jovan Udovicki, and Vukasin Nedic. Srskic and Udovicki were known Tito loyalists and would presumably offer up the current Party line. But why had they included Nedic?

He soon found out.

‘I have taken liberty of arranging times,’ Popovic told him in very passable English, passing over another sheet of paper. Srskic and Udovicki were both down for that morning, at eleven and twelve respectively, in their offices at Party headquarters. Nedic was at three, at a different address, for which copious directions had been appended.

‘That is his home,’ Popovic pointed out. ‘Comrade Nedic has been ill, and remains on leave.’

‘Okay,’ Russell said, starting to get up.

‘There is more,’ Popovic said hurriedly, causing him to sit down again. ‘Comrades Srskic and Udovicki do not speak English, so an interpreter will be supplied for your interviews with them.’

‘I also speak German and Russian,’ Russell offered.

‘They do not,’ Popovic said firmly. ‘But Comrade Nedic does speak English. And Russian, too,’ he added, with what might have been the hint of a smile. ‘So you won’t need an interpreter. But you must supply us with a transcript of your interview, and any articles you wish to file from Belgrade must also be submitted for my approval. Is that clear?’

‘Indeed it is,’ Russell agreed.

‘You are sure?’ Popovic asked, sounding less than certain for the first time.

‘Oh, absolutely,’ Russell reassured him. ‘Abso-bloody-lutely,’ he murmured to himself as he walked back out to the street.

The YCP building was a ten-minute walk away. The interpreter, an attractive young woman wearing military fatigues, was waiting in reception, and she escorted him up to Marko Srskic’s third-floor office. The interviews with him and Udovicki proved fairly predictable, and the cynic in Russell wondered if they’d actually been scripted by the same author. On the record, both men affirmed their enormous respect for the first Workers’ State, and insisted that Yugoslavia would fulfil every obligation to all their Cominform allies. There had been friction, yes, but that was only to be expected among members of even the happiest family. Off the record-and they were only too happy to be so-both Yugoslavs comrades admitted how sick they were of their overbearing mentor, and how ready they were to go it alone, regardless of Soviet threats. It was clear to Russell that both official and unofficial messages were intended for public consumption, the first to tell the world how reasonable they were being, the second to let the Soviets know they wouldn’t shrink from conflict.

When he pressed them on how Yugoslav communism might differ from the Soviet model, the lack of any real answer was revealing. Russell was left with the impression that it wasn’t so much Soviet methods and policies that were unacceptable, as Soviet insistence that they should be followed. Tito’s communists needed to look different, and probably were different in some respects, but they weren’t by any stretch of the imagination either pro-Western or anti-communist. If they succeeded in declaring their independence, and somehow fashioning a slightly softer version of communism, both the Soviets and the Americans would have reason to worry.

Neither Youklis nor Serov would be pleased, which had to be good news for humanity.

After lunch at his cafe in the Marketplatz, Russell took the tram stipulated in Popovic’s instructions from a stop farther down Jugowitja, and managed to alight at the right corner in the old Turkish Town. As far as he could tell he wasn’t being followed, but then they knew where he was going. If there wasn’t someone waiting to pick up his trail when he left Nedic’s house, he’d be very surprised.

Popovic’s insistence on a transcript of the forthcoming interview was of course ridiculous-he knew full well that Russell could leave out whatever he chose. So why demand it? Russell could only think of one reason-to provide him and Nedic with a false sense of security. Thus encouraged, they would both blab like lunatics, and someone hidden in a cupboard would write it all down. Or even more likely, the place would be bugged. According to Shchepkin, these days the MGB had a string of science laboratories designing the things, and no doubt they’d passed some on to their Yugoslav disciples in the halcyon days that followed liberation.

Nedic answered the door himself, and he seemed to be alone in the house. He was a stout, balding man in his forties, with a red, drinker’s nose and suspicious eyes. His cooperation had been requested, he said in excellent English, and he would answer whatever questions were put to him, although he found it hard to believe that a Yugoslav communist and an American journalist would share enough common ground for any real understanding.

Having said his piece, Nedic led Russell through to a sparsely furnished room at the back. There were landscapes on two of the walls, and a portrait of a young girl on another. Outside the window, ship’s masts were visible.

Nedic briefly disappeared, then returned with a bottle and two glasses. After pouring two generous measures, he passed one across and carried his own to an armchair. ‘So begin.’

Russell asked him the same questions he’d asked the other two, and got almost identical answers. The difference lay in the intended audience: Srskic and Udovicki had been speaking to the world, while Nedic was addressing his Party enemies. If his house was bugged, he was literally broadcasting his innocence; if it wasn’t, he was relying on Russell to spread the news.

When they were finished, Russell walked across to the window. ‘It’s a wonderful view from here. It must be even better outside.’

Nedic just stood there, waiting for him to go.

‘The weather’s been really unusual today,’ Russell said, hoping it didn’t as ridiculous as he thought it did.

Nedic’s double-take was almost Chaplinesque. ‘I suppose it is a good view,’ he admitted. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

They climbed down the steps to the backyard. Beyond the gate, a single railway line curved along the back of the houses, beyond that, a gentle slope leading down to the river, scattered with trees and the reminders of war. A line of oil barges was heading upstream, presumably from Romania. ‘We must be quick,’ Russell said. ‘I was asked to get your appreciation of the situation, and some sort of list.’

‘The first is easy,’ Nedic said, looking animated for the first time. ‘Tito and his followers have treason in their hearts. They are traitors to the Cominform, and to our own revolution. The comrades in Moscow must act soon, or it will be too late. Tell them there is no hope of a political solution-a show of force is needed to galvanise all those comrades who have fallen for Tito’s lies. They will know best what to do, but just moving some troops to the border would bring many comrades to their senses. I am sure of it.’

Russell wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there. ‘And the list?’ he asked, hoping there wouldn’t be one.

‘I have typed out the names of every member of the Central Committee,’ Nedic told him. ‘All you have to remember is a number-72731. If a new leadership is deemed necessary, then the seventh, twenty-seventh and thirty-first comrades on the list can be relied upon. As of course can I.’

It was better than Russell expected. But how would he explain a list of YCP Central Committee members?

‘It was printed in Red Star last year. You copied it out and brought it with you, planning to interview all the comrades that you could.’

‘Sounds feasible.’

‘The list is inside. But one last thing,’ Nedic said, pausing at the back door. ‘You must stress what little time is left. We could all be arrested tomorrow, and once we’re on Goli Otok, there will be no one left here to invite them back.’

Russell nodded, and stepped back into the house. They had only been outside for a few minutes, but he could almost feel the suspicion seeping from the bugs. He silently accepted Nedic’s list, mentally repeated the number, and stepped out through the front door. As he’d expected, there was a man loitering a short way down the street, one who suddenly felt like a walk the moment Russell appeared.

But he wasn’t stopped and searched on his way back to the hotel. He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening transcribing his notes of the interview and writing the article he thought his hosts wanted, a mattress of loyalty on a bed of defiance. That finished, he celebrated with the most luxurious meal he could find, which was neither that good nor that expensive.

The good weather came to an abrupt end while he was eating, rain beating on the windows of the restaurant like someone demanding entrance. No cab appeared to save him a drenching, so he took a hot bath to ward off a cold-an old wives’ tale, no doubt, but a pleasant end to a difficult day.

On Thursday, Effi travelled out to Zehlendorf for lunch with Lisa Sundgren. ‘I’ve got nothing for you,’ she told the other woman as they entered the hotel dining room. ‘My KPD friend said he’d talk to a Czech comrade, but he hasn’t had time to meet him yet.’

‘Oh that’s a pity,’ Lisa smiled. ‘I’m doing so badly myself, I was hoping you’d come up with a miracle.’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Well let’s eat anyway. There’s not much choice, but the food’s not bad here. Better than I expected.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Effi said, scanning the rest of the clientele. Most looked American.

After they had ordered, Lisa described several recent visits to the recently reopened Czechoslovak embassy. ‘They’ve never told me that I can’t have a visa. They just say it’ll take a long time, longer than they know I’ve got in Berlin, so there’s no point in my even applying. And they’re so totally unsympathetic. I’ve seen three different men there, and all exactly the same-cold, indifferent, almost cruel. One actually told me that many Germans were killed in 1945, so my daughter was probably dead anyway.’ Lisa shook her head. ‘And she may be, I know that, but …’

Their food arrived, limiting conversation for the next few minutes.

‘I’ve met two other women who are looking for their children,’ Lisa said eventually. ‘One in Poland, one in Moravia. After the Moravian woman had listened to my story, she warned me that the Czech government would be afraid of letting me back in, in case I demanded my first husband’s business back, and kicked up a fuss when I was refused. So I went back to the embassy and said I was more than happy to sign away any rights to compensation, that I just wanted my daughter back. And all they said was, “You have no rights to sign away”.’

‘Bastards,’ Effi agreed.

‘And if they did suddenly change their minds and gave me a visa, now I wouldn’t trust them to let me out again.’

‘My KPD friend … how did he put it? He thinks the new government’s being more Soviet than the Soviets; that they’re seeing everyone as a potential enemy at the moment. But he also believes that things will settle down in a few months.’

‘I can’t wait that long. And I don’t think my husband will agree to a second trip. I’m beginning to think-I don’t even know if I should be telling you this-but I’m beginning to think that Uschi’s only way out is the one I took.’

‘But you can’t even contact her.’

‘I know. But this Moravian woman, she knows people who are willing to carry messages across the border. For money, of course. And she thinks they might also be willing to supply travel permits, and other papers. Forgeries, I suppose. It’ll be expensive, but I’ve already spent a fortune getting here, and to go back empty-handed …’

‘Be careful,’ Effi warned. ‘There are thousands of Berliners still looking for lost relatives, and a whole new army of men who see them as a business opportunity. I’m not saying that they’re all crooked, but I wouldn’t part with any money until I was sure. If they can find Uschi and bring back a message, then they’d be worth paying, but don’t start asking after false papers, not yet. I might be able to help with those.’

Buying a newspaper on his way home from work, Strohm noticed the short piece at the bottom of the front page. The Rummelsburg repair shop workers, after lengthy discussion with Party officials, had reconsidered their opposition to certain new procedures, and re-affirmed their determination to make their workplace a model of socialist enterprise.

At the same meeting time heartfelt tributes had been paid to Stefan Utermann, veteran of the Party’s underground resistance to the Nazis, survivor of Buchenwald and the former manager of the Rummelsburg railway repair shop, who had been killed in a tragic accident the previous evening. The authorities were still trying to piece together the circumstances, but Comrade Utermann had been knocked down and killed by a passing train.

It was still raining in Belgrade next morning, and Russell borrowed a hotel umbrella for the walk to the Foreign Press Liaison office. Comrade Popovic took his article away for ten minutes, and then brought it back with a smile. ‘Very informative,’ he said, without apparent irony. ‘But you realise you can’t send it from here?’

‘Of course not,’ Russell agreed. That would imply official approval.

‘Are you leaving today?’ Popovic asked.

‘No, tomorrow. I thought I’d have a day off, see the sights.’

Popovic looked surprised, and Russell could understand why-Belgrade wasn’t the most seductive of cities.

He splashed back to the hotel, and sat with a coffee staring out of the window. A puddle was spreading around a blocked drain; if the rain didn’t stop soon the square would turn into a lake.

It was now or never as far as Zoran Pograjac was concerned, and Russell knew he had to make the effort. Youklis might be a piece of shit, but he could make Russell’s life a misery. Appeasement was the smart way to go.

Though not at the cost of a Yugoslav prison. Russell knew he needed some insurance.

Back in his room he wrote a short letter on Majestic stationery, which he signed and dated. A two-minute walk brought him to the central Post Office, where a pretty young clerk named Adrijana assured him that it would be delivered next morning.

It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

Back at the hotel, he collected his room key, left his shadow in the lobby, and headed for the back exit which he’d scouted out the previous day, with precisely this eventuality in mind. It took him almost an hour to reach the address Youklis had given him, a crumbling block of flats in an industrial area close to the docks. He spotted no watchers on his first pass, and decided that further loitering would be counterproductive-in this sort of area any stranger was conspicuous.

The outer door was open, the lights inside not working. As far as he could see, there were four flats in each floor, which put Pograjac on the second. Third if your name was Youklis.

He started up the darkened stairwell, which was suffused with the smell of something rotten. If the leaders of the domestic opposition were all living in places like this, Tito had nothing to worry about.

A door opened on the first floor as he went past, and closed almost as quickly, offering the fleetest glimpse of a dark-eyed woman’s frightened face. There was no sign of life on the second, and the only numbered door was the one he wanted. He stood there listening for a few seconds, but all he could hear was a distant ship’s horn and the sound of his own breathing.

He knocked on the door.

It was opened almost instantly by a middle aged man in working clothes.

‘Zoran Pograjac?’ Russell asked.

The man nodded and gestured him in with a smile. Russell was barely across the threshold when two more men with guns emerged from adjoining rooms. As he took an instinctive step backwards, he felt another gun in his back.

One of the men in front of him said something in Serbo-Croat, which he assumed meant ‘you’re under arrest’.

‘Is there anything the matter?’ Annaliese asked Strohm, after a supper spent mostly in silence. ‘I feel like I’m living with someone who isn’t really here.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s work. I’ve had a difficult couple of days.’

‘Your old friend Stefan.’

He nodded. He couldn’t seem to shake it off. The day after seeing Utermann his boss had called him upstairs to congratulate him, which had only made him feel like shit. He kept telling himself that if he wanted an active role in the new socialist Germany he had to accept the occasional setback-omelettes and broken eggs, etc. And if he didn’t … well, that wasn’t an option. What else would he do with his life?

‘You said it was settled.’

‘It is. Let’s talk about something else.

‘Okay. Effi dropped in at the hospital today. She said someone told her the weekend trains to Werder were back to normal, and she suggested we take a trip out this Sunday. She says Rosa’s hardly ever been out in the country.’

‘That sounds like a good idea. Am I invited?’

She gave him a look. ‘You’re expected.’

He smiled, took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘Let’s have an early night.’

‘All right,’ she said, hugging him tighter and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘But first I have something to tell you.’

She sounded nervous, he thought, which wasn’t like her. He gently pulled back to look her in the eyes.

‘I’m pregnant.’

He stared at her, shaking his head with wonder, feeling joy rise up through his chest.

‘You look pleased.’

‘Oh God, yes.’

‘Well, thank God for that!’

‘We’ll have to get married.’

‘We don’t have to.’

‘Will you marry me?’

Annaliese beamed at Strohm. ‘Of course I will.’

The interrogation started badly. There was no English speaker available, so the UDBA officer-Russell recognised the uniform-put his face a few inches from Russell’s and shouted at him in Serbo-Croat. When an English-speaker was found, and Russell was accused of consorting with the enemy, his response-that he could hardly consort with someone who wasn’t there-earned him a playful slap in the face which almost knocked him over. Wit, it seemed, was not appreciated.

Russell managed to look suitably cowed by the prospect of more violence-which didn’t stretch his acting ability-and things settled down a bit. His interrogator, who introduced himself as Colonel Milankovic, was a tall, prematurely grey Serb with an obvious bullet scar on his neck. He made a brief statement, which the interpreter, a much younger man with the scant beginnings of a beard, faithfully conveyed to Russell. His choices it seemed were two: the marble quarry on Naked Island-the good option-or execution as a spy.

‘I’m not a spy,’ Russell lied.

‘What other reason could you have for visiting a known enemy of the state?’

‘I didn’t know Pograjac was an enemy of the state,’ Russell said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I knew he was an opponent of the current government, and in my country journalists talk to members of the opposition. And that’s why I visited him. To ask him for an interview. As a journalist, not as a spy.’

Colonel Milankovic’s response seemed much longer than the eventual translation-‘we have only your word for that.’

He was then told that his hotel room was being searched, and that questioning would resume once the search team had reported.

‘They won’t find anything,’ Russell insisted. And they wouldn’t, unless they had put it there.

He was left to stew in the interview room. The door hadn’t been locked, but there was at least one guard outside, and there was nowhere he could run to. He didn’t even know where he was, having been brought there in the back of a windowless van. It had only taken about fifteen minutes, so he assumed he was still in Belgrade.

He paced up and down, rehearsing what he should and shouldn’t say, wondering how long it would take the Soviets and Americans to realise he’d gone missing, and whether they would or could do anything about it. He still had his insurance, but he wanted to be sure of exactly what he was being accused before revealing his only defence. Proving he wasn’t an American spy wouldn’t help that much if they thought he was working for Moscow.

His inquisitors returned. Something had been found in his hotel room-the list of Central Committee members.

He used the explanation Nedic had suggested, grateful that he’d resisted the temptation to write the code number down.

‘Ah,’ Milankovic said, with the air of a dog who’d just caught sight of a brand-new bone. Perhaps Mister Russell could recall the five-minute conversation he’d had with Comrade Nedic, behind the comrade’s house?

Russell decided not to ask how they knew about that-one slap a day was more than enough. ‘We were looking at the river,’ he said, trying to sound surprised.

‘Why?’

Russell shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s the Danube. It’s famous. I wanted to see it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why not? Why would I have a secret conversation with Comrade Nedic? He’s a friend of Moscow, isn’t he?

‘Is he?’

‘Well, he has that reputation. As you already know, he said nothing to confirm it.’

‘Inside the house.’

‘Or outside. Are you really accusing me of working for the Soviets?’

Milankovic smiled to himself. ‘No, Mister Russell, I’m accusing you of working for the Americans. Or perhaps the British. They are both sponsoring campaigns of terror against Yugoslavia, arming and funding former war criminals and sending them across the border on murder missions.’

‘I do know that. But I don’t work for either of them. I’m a journalist.’

Milankovic just looked at him.

‘I also know the details of a particular operation, which is either already underway or will be very soon.’

Milankovic seemed almost disappointed. ‘Comrades you’ll now betray in hope of saving your skin.’

Russell shook his head. ‘They’re no comrades of mine, and I informed your authorities about them before I was arrested.’

‘Who? How?’

He explained about the four Krizari and their terrorist plans. ‘I saw the false papers which a Catholic priest in Trieste had prepared for them, on instructions from American intelligence. The letter I sent to your central bureau contains the names on those papers. Which should make them easy to pick up.’

Now Milankovic looked bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just report this to the police?’

‘I’m a journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m supposed to report events, not manipulate them.’

‘So why have you? Why would you put the interests of Yugoslavia above those of your own country?

Russell smiled. ‘The interests of American intelligence and the interests of America aren’t the same thing. And no, I don’t have any special affection for Yugoslavia, but I have every reason to loathe the Ustashe. Who doesn’t? And I feel ashamed of my government for using such people.’ He sounded like he believed it, which was probably because he did.

Milankovic was only half convinced. ‘So where did you post this letter?’

‘In the central post office. A girl named Adrijana sold me the stamp, and I expect she’ll remember me.’

‘We will talk to her, and wait for the morning delivery. In the meantime, you will have to sleep here. I’m sure a meal can be arranged.’

The food was awful, the cot in his cell as soft as a plank, and if the noises off were any guide his fellow detainees were suffering much more than he was. But he managed a few hours of dream-filled sleep, and felt only slightly less than human when business was resumed.

The letter had apparently arrived, and the UDBA was duly grateful. As for his arrest, well, Mister Russell would surely appreciate that sometimes wrong conclusions were drawn, and that he himself perhaps bore some responsibility for those reached on this occasion.

Russell wasn’t about to argue. The way he saw it, they were bound still to be suspicious. He had offered innocent explanations for the missing minutes with Nedic and his visit to Pograjac, and he could doubtless conjure up another for casting off his shadow. But he couldn’t disprove their alternative explanations, and with people like these you were guilty until proven innocent. Everything else being equal, he could see himself back in a cell.

But of course it wasn’t. He had given them four of the hated Krizari, they were keen to see his article published, and he could tell from Milankovic’s face that he was about to be released.

Russell risked a question: ‘What has happened to Zoran Pograjac?’

He had just been tried, and found guilty of conspiracy against the state.

‘Goli Otok for him, then.’

‘He wasn’t that lucky.’

They met up at Anhalter Station, and joined the waiting crowd on the open platform-the bombed-out roof had still not been replaced. Strohm’s bag contained the rest of the past payok parcel, Effi’s a bottle of wine which Zarah had passed on from Bill. She had invited them and Lothar, but they were going to a US Army baseball game out in Dahlem. Rosa was carrying her drawing pad and pencils in a satchel over her shoulder, and worrying that the train might be full.

‘It’s coming from the depot,’ Strohm assured her. ‘It’ll be empty.’

It was, but didn’t take long to fill up. One pregnant woman was left standing, and Effi was about to offer her seat when a Red Army soldier beat her to it, all concern and joviality. This, no doubt unreasonably, made her feel less anxious about taking a trip out into the Soviet zone. None of the people she’d asked had thought there was reason to worry, but there was still a vague sense of placing one’s head between the jaws of a playful lion. But at least with Strohm there, too, they had some good insurance.

The train set off, inching out along the viaduct and through the still-neglected yards. As it slowly gathered a modicum of speed, the gapped streets grew increasingly whole, until, in the farthest suburbs, the legacies of war became almost invisible. And once they were out in open country, it felt like another planet entirely; one where grey was unknown, and the greens of spring shone with a shocking intensity.

It took almost an hour and a half to reach Werder. They emerged from the station into what Effi imagined was Moscow writ small-the square was festooned with posters announcing the Soviet Union’s abolition of poverty, unemployment, racism, and everything else that blighted the unfortunate West. A montage of heroes adorned the building opposite the station, and away to the left a group of boys were playing football underneath a giant portrait of Zhukov. All the shops lining one side had been abandoned, although one now housed the local headquarters of the SED, the Socialist Unity Party. Staffed by people like Strohm, Effi thought, as they walked past it. A lot of people she knew hated and feared the SED, but a party full of Strohms seemed nothing to be afraid of. Were they misjudging the Party, or did she not know the man?

She looked at Strohm, who was talking to Rosa. The girl really liked him, which was a good sign. And he seemed happier than usual today.

It didn’t take them long to get out of the town, and on to a narrow road that wound between meadows studded with poppies and burrowed through occasional stands of pine, the wide expanse of the Havel glinting not far to the north. The breeze was full of beautiful fragrances, the sky above almost swarming with birds. Everything seemed so alive.

Or almost everything. They passed a Soviet cemetery, red stars on every grave. They had their reasons, Effi thought. And after April’s panic they were seeming more reasonable again.

After eating lunch beneath a gnarled tree on the shore of the Havel, Rosa took out her drawing pad, and sat looking across the lake for quite a while before putting pencil to paper. She wasn’t used to distances, Effi realised. It crossed her mind that if the Russians laid siege to Berlin’s Western sectors, as many feared they would, then she and Rosa could say farewell to days like this.

A gloomy thought. Strohm was down on the beach, skimming flat stones across the water. ‘He looks happy,’ Effi thought out loud.

‘He’s going to be a father,’ Annaliese said matter-of-factly.

Effi spun around, let out a cry of joy, and threw her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful!’

‘Isn’t it?’

She had never seen Annaliese cry before, which considering all they’d been through together, was something of a miracle. ‘And you’re both really happy about it?’ Effi asked, just to be sure.

‘Oh yes. The only hard bit was telling Gerd’s parents, because I knew they’d be thinking that my child should have been their grandchild, and it would only remind them that Gerd was dead. But they were wonderful. They said how pleased they were for me, and I’m sure they meant it.’ Annaliese smiled. ‘So I asked them to be godparents, and that made us all cry.’ She looked across at the future father. ‘I haven’t told Gerhard about that bit yet.’

‘I don’t suppose he believes in God.’

‘No, but then neither do I.’ Annaliese looked up the branches rustling in the breeze. ‘But sometimes I just believe in … I don’t know, in all this life. Inside and out. What else is there?’