Potsdam Station

Under the gun

April 26 – 27

Russell was woken by the thump of distant explosions. It had to be an air raid, but sounded louder than anything that had gone before. On and on it went without respite, like a berserk drummer with no sense of rhythm.

Some of the bombs seemed to be falling not too far away, but as Leissner had said, it would take extraordinary bad luck for a shell or bomb to land on their roof, protected as it was by surrounding buildings and a secondary ceiling of elevated tracks. Sound reasoning, which didn’t quite still his nerves, or black out the images of trench life under shell-fire which rose unbidden from his memory.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he murmured to himself, partly in search of distraction, partly because he needed some sort of plan. Was his best bet to stay where he was, wait for the Russians, and hope for their help in finding his family? Mounting a tour of the giant shelters in search of Effi would be pointless. His chances of finding her would be minute, his chances of death by shellfire depressingly high. If Effi was in one of those shelters she should be safe; when the war ended and the shelling stopped, she would doubtless go home, and he would find her there.

It was the sensible option, but still hard to take. Since 1941 a sense of failure, of letting her down, had churned away in the shallower recesses of his subconscious, and inaction always brought it bubbling to the surface. The urge to keep looking was almost irresistible, and he had to keep reminding himself that behaving like a headless chicken might very well lose him his head.

Several hours went by. Varennikov woke up, and the two of them breakfasted on cans of cabbage and cold water. They talked for a while about Russia, and Russell’s first visit in 1924, when the hopes were still high. Listening to himself talk, and seeing the pride in Varennikov’s face, Russell felt sadness rather than anger. He was getting old, he told himself.

Stefan Leissner had come to see them each morning so far, but noon passed without a visit. And, as a quick trip downstairs revealed, the sentry in the tunnel was gone. What was happening? Russell went back up to Varennikov, and asked the Russian if he fancied a trip to Leissner’s office – ‘you haven’t been out since we got here.’

Varennikov demurred. He knew he was being over-anxious, he said, but there was always a chance that the papers they’d buried would be destroyed by a shell or a bomb. ‘Or even eaten by an animal,’ he added. ‘So I must keep myself safe until what I’ve learned has been passed on.’

Fair enough, Russell thought. Crazy, but hardly grounds for committal. He descended once more on his own, walked down the short stretch of tunnel, and climbed the other spiral staircase. It seemed deathly quiet in the underground office complex, and neither Leissner nor anyone else was in residence,

He took the two flights of stairs to the elevated goods warehouse, which was equally deserted. The short walk along the elevated tracks offered a panoramic view of hell, the sort of thing Hieronymus Bosch might have painted if he’d been born a half-millennium later, but, for the moment at least, no shells were landing nearby. He hurried across the tracks, noting only the curtain of fire that hung above the northern horizon, and what looked like a rail-mounted flak gun further down the viaduct.

He found Leissner in the goods station forecourt. A bomb had fallen on this side of the elevated tracks, killing two men he didn’t recognise and almost severing their host’s right leg. He – or someone else – had tied a tourniquet above the knee, but that had been some time ago, and if Russell was any judge the unconscious man was in serious danger of losing the limb. He loosened the tourniquet and wondered what else he could do. Nothing much, was the answer. He could haul Leissner back down to his underground office, but the leg might break off in the process. Or he could leave him here, on the old principle that two bombs never fall on the same spot. Out in the open he might attract a passing medic’s attention.

Or not. If he fetched Varennikov, Russell realised, the two of them could carry the man down to his office. They could all stay there until the Russians came. It would be just as safe as their current abode.

He made his way back through the offices and up towards the tracks, still juggling options in his mind. Perhaps he should head for Effi’s new flat now, and leave Varennikov with Leissner. They could welcome the Red Army just as well without him.

As he emerged onto the viaduct he heard a rumbling sound. The rail-mounted flak gun was grinding its way along the viaduct some two hundred metres to the north. Spasms of black smoke rose behind it, as an invisible steam engine propelled it forward. The barrel of the gun was questing to and fro, as if it was smelling the air.

Where the hell did they think they were going? Russell wondered. Poland?

He didn’t wait to find out, hustling down two sets of stairs to the tunnel below. Here he received an unpleasant surprise – there was gunfire in the tunnel leading south. It still sounded some way away, but over the last few days Russell had learned how being underground could warp one’s sense of distance.

He scurried down the tunnel to the abandoned station and headed for the spiral staircase. He had climbed about five steps when the blast of air and sound hit him, blowing him backwards against the handrail and spilling him onto the platform. The debris cascading down the stairwell sounded like a coalman emptying his sack.

Russell scrambled unsteadily to his feet. He felt like he’d been hit by a wall, but no bones seemed broken.

He started up the iron staircase, holding his collar against the swirling dust. He was used to darkness above, but the old booking office was now awash with beams of light, flooding down and around a mountain of metal. The flak gun and its mount had fallen through the roof, crushed the interior walls of the old station building, and come to rest on solid earth, half in the old booking office, half in the room where Russell and Varennikov had spent most of their time. The long barrel of the 88mm gun lay across the remains of the inner wall, as if it was resting from its long labours.

Varennikov was somewhere underneath it. Russell squeezed himself between a wall and several huge wheels, then through a gap between buffers. There was more space left in the other room, and he allowed himself a moment of hope that the young Russian had survived. But no – there were his legs, both severed by an edge of armoured plate. The rest of his body was underneath the fallen carriage, crushed to a pulp.

It would have been quick. Varennikov might have heard the viaduct give way, but he would barely have had time to look up before nemesis fell through the ceiling.

Russell worked his way back into the old booking office. There were two more corpses behind the gun, both of boys in Hitlerjugend uniforms. There were probably more outside. The viaduct above looked as if someone had taken a huge bite out of it, but there were no signs of charring or smoke. The structure had probably been compromised already, the gun just a little too heavy.

So what now? Russell asked himself. With the viaduct half-destroyed he might find it hard to reach Leissner, and what, in any case, would be the point? – there was nothing he could do for the man, other than keep him company. There were people with more claim to his attention, people he loved.

Not that he knew where they were. He decided he would try to reach Effi’s flat. If she stayed in one of the big shelters she should be all right, but if she ended up at home his protection – and Nikoladze’s letter – might be worth something.

The Reichsbahn uniform was somewhere under the wreckage, but the foreign worker outfit he was wearing should be almost as safe. Surely the Nazis had better things to do with their final hours than check credentials.

He hesitated for a moment at the top of the staircase, wondering what he could say to mark Varennikov’s passing, but nothing came to mind. He remembered what the young Russian’s father had said, that his son’s life would unfold like the chronicle of a better world. So much for a father’s dreams.

He gingerly worked his way down the wreckage-strewn staircase. At the bottom he hesitated, uncertain which way to go. North would take him away from the West End and Effi’s apartment, but south was where he heard the gunfire. He opted for the latter. One thing about Russian soldiers – you could usually hear them coming.

He passed the bottom of the other spiral staircase and entered uncharted territory. It was hard to be certain underground, but the tracks seemed to be rising, which suggested they would soon emerge into the open. He knew there was an east-west running U-Bahn line somewhere in the near vicinity, but had no idea if there was any way of accessing it from the tunnel he was in. Iron ladders rose up to the roof at regular intervals, but the U-Bahn line would surely pass beneath him.

He was making his way around a long curve in the tracks when the walls ahead briefly shone with a faint yellow light. A split-second later he heard the scream, also faint, but no less bloodcurdling in its intensity. A flamethrower, he guessed. A few moments of agony before you died.

He could hear voices now, and the echoes of running feet. German voices, not that it mattered. No one coming down that tunnel would hesitate to shoot him.

He turned on his heels and hurried back towards the first iron ladder. It seemed much further than he remembered, and the voices behind him were growing louder. Had he missed one in the dark?

If so, he almost missed another, catching the gleam of metal as he hurried past. He grabbed hold of the ladder and started up, just as a burst of machine-gun fire erupted in the tunnel behind him. He was climbing into utter darkness, but assumed that the ladder had to lead somewhere. And then his head made painful contact with something hard – an iron railing. He hung there for several seconds, gripping the ladder until the dizziness abated, then risked using the flashlight to examine his surroundings. He was at the top of a cylindrical shaft, where the ladder ended in a small platform, just beneath a circular plate.

The running feet sounded almost beneath him. He hauled himself onto the platform and pushed in desperation at the heavy-looking plate. Much to his surprise, it almost shot upwards, losing him his balance and tipping him back into the tunnel. He clambered swiftly out onto into the open air, rolled the cover plate back into place and looked around for something to weigh it down. He seemed to be in another goods yard, and the only movable objects with any weight were a couple of porters’ trolleys lying on the ground nearby. He dragged them over and piled them on top of the plate, realising as he did so that they weren’t heavy enough. But there was nothing else.

Time to go, he told himself. But which way? It was late in the afternoon, so the smoke-wreathed sun was in the south-west. There was a narrow roadway heading westward, and it soon passed under several elevated tracks, which had to be those heading south out of Potsdam Station. Rounding a corner, he received confirmation in the familiar silhouette of the Lutherkirche. He knew where he was.

He hurried up past the church, conscious once again of the city’s ominous soundtrack. A short distance down Bülow Strasse some women were dissecting a fallen horse, its innards a vivid splash of red in the sea of greys and browns. For the moment no shells were exploding nearby, but that of course could change in an instant, and the women were working at a feverish pace. Walking past on the other side, Russell noticed several of their faces were streaked with white plaster, giving them the appearance of theatrical ghosts. Intent on securing their family’s next few meals, they didn’t seem to notice him, and when a shell landed a hundred metres down the street, none ran for the nearest shelter. When Russell glanced back from the Bülow Strasse station entrance they were all still carving at the bloody carcass.

This U-Bahn line ran underground all the way to Bismarck Strasse, and as far as Russell knew the Russians were still some kilometres away. There was no one to stop him descending to the platforms, and the tunnels, as he soon found out, were already in service as civilian highways. The current was obviously off.

He joined the steady stream of people heading west. Ventilation shafts provided occasional patches of light, but rendered the darkness between them even more intense, and progress was extremely slow. Despite the absence of any direct threat an almost hysterical atmosphere seemed to pervade the tunnels. There was always a child crying somewhere, and every now and then a sudden shriek would echo down the tunnel. It wasn’t much more than three kilometres to Effi’s building on Bismarck Strasse, but it took him the best part of two miserable hours to reach Zoo Station. The sight of several SS officers in conclave at the far end of the westbound platform offered all the incentive he needed to head back above ground.

Reaching the surface, he almost regretted the decision – night had fallen, most of Berlin was ablaze, and the Russians seemed much closer than he’d expected. A surprising number of people were hurrying across the wide expanse beside the Stadtbahn station, and he joined the rush, heading north up Hardenberg Strasse under the blood-coloured sky. Just beyond the railway bridge several figures were swaying on gibbets, reminding him to look out for SS patrols. The bastards might ignore him in his foreign worker uniform, but they could just as easily be looking for scapegoats.

And the uniform, he suddenly realised, was unlikely to win him a welcome at Effi’s apartment building. In the last resort he could tear off the badge, but something smarter would be an improvement. From a corpse, he thought. There were enough of them lying around.

Some sort of fracas was underway at the Knie intersection, so he turned up the smaller Schiller Street, meaning to join Bismarck Strasse a little further down. There was a female corpse outside a bomb-damaged shop, and another close to the junction with Grolman Strasse, but no sign of the dead male he needed. A car with all its windows broken was parked in front of the ruined Schiller Theatre, and Russell had almost gone past it when he noticed the man slumped back in the driving seat, a gun still stuck in his mouth. After quickly scanning the street for witnesses, he pulled the body onto the pavement and into a niche in the rubble. The man looked about the right height, and he’d been kind enough not to get blood on his suit. Russell changed into the jacket and trousers, and congratulated himself on his luck – they fitted almost perfectly. The papers in the jacket pocket included a Nazi Party card with a suspiciously low number, and the bookmark in the man’s diary was inserted beside a map of the Reich in 1942. No wonder he’d shot himself.

Russell hesitated a moment, then tossed the papers and diary away. If they weren’t out of date, they soon would be.

As he reached Bismarck Strasse a welcoming shell landed half the way down to Adolf Hitler Platz. Effi’s latest home was only a few buildings down, one of those an old and elegant Berlin mansions that they’d sometimes thought of buying, should they ever want to raise a family. The blackout regulations were presumably in abeyance, but none of the windows were lit – the residents would all be in the shelter. The front door opened to his push, and he walked upstairs in search of Number 4. That door was locked, and one half-hearted bang with a shoulder showed no sign of forcing it open.

A shell exploded nearby, causing the floor to slightly shift – perhaps the shelter was good idea.

He polished his story on the way down, and sought out the communal basement. Conversations faltered as he stepped inside, but only briefly. He scanned the hundred-odd faces; he was not expecting to see Effi’s, but he wanted to give the impression that he did. Those still staring at him seemed relieved, probably at his lack of a uniform.

When he asked for 185’s block-warden, a stout-looking woman in her forties was pointed out to him. ‘That’s Frau Esser.’

Russell introduced himself as Rainer von Puttkamer, Frau von Frei- wald’s older brother.

Frau Esser looked upset. ‘I’m afraid she left over two weeks ago. And she didn’t tell anyone where she was going.’

‘Oh,’ Russell said, ‘that’s a pity. She was expecting me. At least, she knew that if the Russians reached Beeskow – that’s where our family home has always been – then I would be coming to her. Perhaps she left me a message in the apartment. But of course I don’t have a key. Does the portierfrau have one, do you know?’

‘I expect so. She’s over there. Come with me.’

Russell obediently followed. He’d been ready with dramatic tales of a miraculous escape to explain his lack of papers, but it seemed that they wouldn’t be needed – the imminent end of the war had finally made it all seem irrelevant. The portierfrau proved more than willing to let him use her key, and remarked on how much he looked like his sister. Perhaps it was true that couples grew to resemble other, Russell thought. He felt rather pleased by the notion, until he remembered that Effi was disguising herself as an older woman.

He was tempted to go up immediately, but an explosion nearby persuaded him otherwise. The camp beds that belonged to Frau von Freiwald and her niece were still waiting for them, a fact which Russell found surprising, but which Frau Esser took obvious pride in – the idea of personal property still meant something in her shelter. He introduced himself to his new neighbours, and received fulsome expressions of sympathy for the loss of the family estates. Declining the offer of a game of skat, he lay down and closed his eyes.

When he woke a few hours later, the only people still awake were an old couple reading a book by the glow of a Hindenburg light. The outside world seemed quiet, and after testing the silence for several moments he wended his way through the gently snoring bodies to the stairs. The sky above the courtyard was a fiery red, but the absence of shellfire persisted.

There was no electricity in the apartment, but once he’d pulled up the blackout blinds there was enough fire-reflected light to see by. Nothing reminded him of Effi though, until he came upon the blouse she’d been wearing that night in the Stettin Station buffet, when she’d calmly announced that she wasn’t going with him. He lay down on the bed, and succumbed to the urge to sniff the pillow. He was hoping for the familiar scent of her hair, but all he could smell was damp.

Elsewhere in the flat he found clothes belonging to a child and another, bigger woman. But there was nothing to tell him anything more – no writing, no letters, only a collection of pencil drawings. He doubted they were Effi’s – he couldn’t remember her ever drawing anything. The other woman’s probably – they seemed too good for a child. He leafed through them – they were like a visual diary of the city’s fall.

In the Potsdam Station shelter it was almost midnight, and Effi had only just finished another long stint in the hospital. Now that the fighting was only a few kilometres away the medical staff were even busier, and the proportion of wounded soldiers to civilians was growing ever-higher. The presence of so many field grey uniforms had unfortunately attracted the attention of those in black, many of whom were now patrolling the corridors in search of possible deserters.

She had sent Rosa to bed an hour ago, and was on the way to join her when a young man on a corridor trolley caught her eye. He was wearing only undershorts, and his pale legs and trunk contrasted markedly with the dark stains of dried blood that covered his arms, neck and face.

It was Paul.

His eyes were closed but he was breathing well enough. The grim expression on his face gave her pause, but only for the briefest of moments. She had known him since he was eight years old. He would never betray her.

She touched him lightly on the shoulder, and his eyes jerked open. ‘Paul,’ she said softly. ‘Remember me? Dagmar?’

He took in the familiar face, the nurse’s uniform, and realised he was smiling. ‘I saw you at Fürstenwalde Station,’ he said.

‘I saw you too. Aren’t you cold? Where are your clothes?’

‘A bit. My uniform’s underneath the trolley. I had to take it off – it’s covered in blood and brains.’

‘Why, what happened to you?’

‘A shell. I was on Grossbeeren Strasse. I’ve no idea how I got here.’ He could see the expression on Werner’s face. ‘A friend had just been killed…’ he began, but let the sentence die.

She saw the pain pass across his eyes. ‘I’ll get you a blanket,’ she told him. ‘I’ll only be a moment.’

While she was gone he levered himself into a sitting position. He felt strange, but that was hardly surprising. Everything else seemed in working order. He vaguely remembered a doctor. He’d also been covered in blood.

Effi came back with a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

‘How did you end up here?’ he asked her.

‘A long story.’

‘It must be,’ he said with a wryness that reminded her of his father.

‘One for later,’ she warned him, as one of the doctors went past.

‘You know that Dad escaped?’ he whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘No,’ Effi admitted. ‘But I expect he’ll arrive with the first Americans, whenever that is.’

‘Why didn’t you go with him?’ Paul asked, without really meaning to.

It felt like the question had asked itself.

‘That’s another long story.’

‘Okay,’ he agreed. He could hardly believe she was standing there in front of him. ‘I saw Uncle Thomas a few days ago,’ he told her.

Her face lit up, only to darken as Paul outlined the circumstances.

‘He was planning to survive,’ he concluded, as if that alone might save his uncle. He suddenly realised that a young girl had joined them, the one he’d seen with Effi on the Fürstenwalde platform.

‘You’re supposed to be asleep,’ Effi scolded her, without any noticeable effect. It was hard to imagine Effi as an effective chastiser of children.

‘You must be Paul,’ the girl said in a very grown-up voice.

‘I am. And who are you?’

‘I’m Rosa at the moment. Rosa Borinski. My aunt has told me all about you. She’s been taking care of me since my mother died.’

‘That’s right,’ Effi agreed. ‘Look, I’ll leave you two together while I do what I can with Paul’s uniform. Okay?’

‘Okay,’ Rosa said, looking suddenly shy.

‘So what did Effi – Dagmar – tell you about me?’ Paul asked her.

‘Oh, that you like football. And models of ships. And that it was difficult for you having an English father.’

It had been, Paul thought. For a while it had coloured everything. And now it seemed utterly irrelevant.

‘And that you lost your mother like I did.’

‘It’s all true,’ Paul admitted. His mother’s death seemed a long time ago.

A shadow loomed over them, two men in black uniforms with belts so stiff that they squeaked. Their insignia said they were Untersturmführers, the SS equivalent of lieutenants.

‘Name?’ one of them asked. He had a thick blubbery face with the sort of pop-out eyes that gave the master race a bad name. His companion, by contrast, was a trifle on the weaselish side. Both had one hand on their holsters, as if mimicking each other.

‘Gehrts, Paul.’

‘Papers.’

‘They’re in my uniform. It’s just been taken to be cleaned.’

‘Are you actually injured?’ the second man asked.

‘I was knocked out by shell-blast. The doctor said I have mild concus-sion,’ he added, suddenly remembering as much.

‘Do you have a chit?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Paul admitted.

‘The doctor’s been too busy,’ Effi said, coming up behind the two SS.

‘But I can vouch for this patient.’ She handed Paul his uniform. It still wore the stains of a messy death, but at least the fragments had been brushed away.

‘What is your unit?’ the first man asked.

‘20th Artillery Regiment, 20th Panzergrenadier Division.’

‘Their command base is now in the Zoo Bunker. You will report there immediately.’

‘As soon as I’m dressed, Untersturmführer,’ Paul agreed.

The man looked vaguely dissatisfied, but nodded his head and turned away. He and his partner walked off down the dimly lit corridor in search of other victims.

‘I think I can persuade one of the doctors to write out a chit excusing you further service,’ Effi told Paul. ‘And then you can come back to the flat with us.’

Paul smiled and reached for his trousers. ‘No, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why ever not? There’s no point in getting yourself killed at this stage.’

‘I know. But I couldn’t duck out on a lie. I owe my comrades better than that. If I decide to take my chances as a deserter I will – there’s an honesty in desertion. But I won’t cheat the system. Not while honest men are still dying.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Does that sound childish to you?’

‘No, just stubborn.’ And she knew there’d be no budging him. There never had been once he’d decided on something. ‘But if you change your mind…’ She told him their address, and was about to add that his presence might offer them some protection when she realised that the opposite would probably be true. If he came between them and the Russians then the latter would probably shoot him. ‘Just come when you can,’ was all she said.

‘Yes,’ Rosa added, offering him a small hand to shake. Taking it, he found himself fighting back tears.

It was around two in the morning when Paul reached the Zoo Bunker flak towers. He had hitched a lift across town in a Ministry of Propaganda lorry – the Reich’s few remaining tanks might be crying out for fuel, but delivering the latest edition of Panzerbär obviously had a higher priority. Skimming a copy by the light of the burning buildings on Tiergarten Strasse, he had discovered that treachery was rife and help on its way.

Despite the sporadic shellfire, tanks and infantry were scattered among the trees outside the Gun Tower, offering an illusion of control which shattered the moment he stepped inside the vast concrete edifice. Here the only deterrent to utter chaos was the degree of overcrowding, which rendered physical movement almost impossible. Every stairway, landing and room of the multi-storey block was occupied by a bewildering mixture of civilians and soldiers, all jostling for enough space in which to lie down.

It took Paul more than half an hour to seek out any semblance of military authority, and when he did the news was bad. The Untersturmführers at the Potsdam Station shelter had got their facts wrong – the remains of the 20th Panzergrenadier Division had been sent to Wannsee Island in the south-western outskirts, and the Russian occupiers of Dahlem and Grunewald now stood between Paul and his former comrades. A weary major suggested he attach himself to the 18th Panzergrenadiers, who were actually on the premises, but Paul’s request for a precise location went unanswered. There were, the major added in explanation, over twenty thousand people crammed into the tower.

Paul went off in search of somewhere to sleep, and eventually found a large enough space to sit down in, provided his chin touched his knees.

As Saturday morning wore on it became increasingly clear to the inhabitants of the Potsdam Station shelter that some sort of crisis was brewing. More and more soldiers were arriving, many of them foreigners serving in the Waffen-SS. They had the air of men expecting to die, and no interest at all in those hoping for reprieve. If death was catching, they seemed like carriers.

‘The doctors are all moving to the Zoo Bunker,’ Annaliese told Effi.

‘And the nurses?’

‘Unofficially, we’ve been told to choose our own fate. We can go along, or stay here, or whatever we want. There’s a group of us going west through the tunnels – one of the soldiers used to work for the S-Bahn and he says he can get us most of the way to Spandau.’

‘What’s so great about Spandau?’

‘Nothing much. Gerd’s parents live out there, so if all else fails I’ll have somewhere to stay. But people say you can still get out of the city from there, and I’d like to leave the Russians behind. The Americans may not be any better, but they can hardly be worse. You should come with me. Both of you.’

‘I have a sister to find’ Effi said automatically. It occurred to her that the U-Bahn tunnel towards Spandau passed under Bismarck Strasse. ‘But can we come with you as far as Knie?’ she asked.

‘Of course. The more the merrier. We’re leaving now, by the way – I only came up to see if you wanted to come. And to say goodbye if you didn’t.’

Effi picked up their suitcase. ‘Let’s go.’

Their route to the platforms took them through the hospital, which was still crowded with wounded.

‘What will happen to them?’ Effi heard herself ask. She already knew the answer.

‘There’s no way of moving them,’ Annaliese confirmed. ‘The Russians will have to look after them.’

They emerged into a wide corridor still plastered with Promi slogans, and descended a staircase lined with identical posters bearing the single word ‘Persevere!’ As they emerged onto the dimly lit platform, Annaliese spotted their group of around a dozen people. There was only one other woman, dressed somewhat incongruously in a long fur coat and hat. Most were middle-aged men in civilian clothes, without weapons or insignia. Minor government officials most likely, the holes still showing in their suit lapels where they’d pinned their badges of loyalty. A couple of Hitlerjugend bearing rifles made up the party; they were busy telling all who would listen that they were just heading back to their Ruhleben barracks.

After checking that everyone was present – the whole business had the air of a school outing, Effi thought – the ex-railway worker led them off the platform and down another staircase. They were still descending when a dull boom reverberated in the distance, then faded into silence. They all stood there listening for several moments, but there were no aftershocks, no sounds of roofs collapsing or soldiers approaching.

The lower of the two S-Bahn platforms was even more crowded, mostly with hungry-looking women and children. The ex-U-Bahn employee had just leapt down to the track bed when a low swishing noise became audible down the south-leading tunnel. It rapidly swelled in volume, rising above the cries of alarm, and exploded from the tunnel mouth in a surging wave of water. The ex-railway worker was knocked off his feet and carried along for at least twenty metres, before managing to fight his way out of the torrent.

All along the platform people were leaping to their feet, frantically gathering children and possessions, and looking round for the nearest exit. Most of the adults seemed to be shouting, most of the children crying. At the mouths of corridors scrums were already underway, as people fought for precedence in their desperation to get away.

Effi resisted the pull, fixing her eyes on the flooded track bed. The tide was slowing, the water rising, but the platform was a metre high and there seemed no immediate danger. Another few moments and they might have been inside the tunnel, with God only knew what results, but for now the platform seemed a much safer bet than the struggle on the stairs.

Rosa was standing beside her, staring open-mouthed at the dark, swirling water. As the tumult around the stairs grew less, they could both hear the screams of those trapped in the tunnels.

It was hot in the Zoo tower, and Paul awoke streaming with sweat from a few hours of miserable sleep. His body was stiff as a board, and there was a sharp pain in his back where the SS officer’s machine pistol had pressed against it. He forced himself painfully to his feet, and watched the bodies around him expand into the few square centimetres he had relinquished.

The smells of sweat, shit and blood – the latter emanating from the continuous activities of the operating theatre on the ground floor – permeated the entire structure, and the loudly whirring air extractors seemed incapable of shifting them. What they did do, was force everyone to shout above them, which only exacerbated the overriding sense of barely suppressed hysteria.

It was, Paul thought, as if they’d all been placed in a huge coffin. The lid was on, with only the burial to look forward to.

He had to get out.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten since the previous morning. There had to be food somewhere in the tower, or people would be even more agitated. He would seek it out, and maybe stumble across the 18th Panzergrenadiers in the process.

He eventually found the canteen he had frequented as a flakhelfer, and joined the long queue. There was only wassersuppe on offer, but it would improve the taste in his mouth. There was even a table to sit at, and after emptying the tin mug he laid his forehead on his folded arms and closed his eyes.

But sleep wouldn’t come. On first joining the army he’d slept through anything quieter than a katyusha barrage, but that knack, like so much else, had eventually deserted him.

Two seats down a young soldier with a Rhenish accent was insisting that Wenck’s Army could only be hours away. No one in his group disputed this, although some comrades were more inclined to put their faith in the imminent appearance of the long-anticipated wonder weapons. One corporal had heard rumours of bombs that could destroy whole cities, and of their intended use against London this coming weekend. When another man argued that Moscow should be the target, the corporal could only agree with him. But, sad to say, the Soviet capital was temporarily out of range.

Across the table a young army captain almost choked on his wassersuppe. ‘Bunch of fools,’ he spluttered in explanation when Paul caught his eye. The young soldiers seemed about to answer back, but were probably inhibited by the Knight’s Cross at their critic’s throat. Instead they rose in unison and made their way out, muttering indignantly amongst themselves.

Another group arrived to take their place, and were soon broadcasting their own rumours. Someone had heard that the Führer was getting married that day, to an actress that nobody had heard of. And that the actress was to going to feature on a new twenty mark note, dressed as a milkmaid.

The captain just shook his head at this one, and got up to leave. Paul thought about following suit, but where was there to go? Here he could stretch out his legs, and there was something comforting in listening to his fellow soldiers’ conversations, no matter how moronic they were.

The ones to his right were discussing the benefits of life in the flak towers. For one thing they were safe from shellfire; for another they were safe from the SS squads now combing the city for deserters. Many civilians were putting out white flags to mollify the approaching Russians, but some were acting too soon, and drawing down the wrath of the SS. Buildings had been emptied, and all their inhabitants shot.

Paul’s thoughts turned to Werner, and the red-headed Obersturmführer who had hanged him. If they both survived the war he would seek some kind of reckoning. The boy deserved a better epitaph.

He felt depression settling over him. Meeting Effi had lifted his heart, but the effect was wearing off. He found himself thinking about Madeleine, and their few weeks together. They’d shared their innermost secrets, even talked of marriage after the war, but their sexual relationship had never gone beyond passionate fumblings in the darkened Tiergarten. She had died in this building, and the chances seemed good that he would too.

He looked round the packed room and told himself to get a grip. With this many people and this much confusion there had to be some way out.

It was after five in the afternoon when Effi and Rosa climbed the staircases up to the shelter. After the initial rush the water had risen steadily for more than an hour, peaking at a point only a few centimetres beneath the rim of the platform. And then it had slowly begun to recede.

She had spent several hours pulling shocked and frightened people from the water. Most had needed no more help than that, and were soon on their way, heading up the stairs in search of sustenance and dry clothes. She reeled in the first few corpses that drifted by, but they appeared at such distressingly frequent intervals that she started letting them go. Most were children, and she ached at the thought that Rosa could well have been one of them.

Back in the shelter the SS presence seemed even more foreboding. The glint of guns was everywhere, and the children were all in Hitlerjugend uniforms. They found Annaliese in their old room, writing out a note. ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she said when she saw them. ‘Where on earth have you been?’

As Effi told their story, she noticed the bruises on her friend’s face and arms.

‘I fell on the stairs,’ Annaliese explained. ‘Others were not so lucky,’ she added. ‘At least one child was trampled. It was insane.’ She grimaced. ‘I say that, and I was as bad as all the others.’ She managed a rueful smile. ‘I assumed you were right behind me. Anyway, I’ve given up on Spandau. There’s a last transport leaving for the Zoo Bunker when it gets dark, so I thought I might as well join it. Why don’t you come?’

‘Okay,’ Effi said without hesitation. The bunker at the Zoo towers might be terrible, but it could hardly be worse than this.

They spent the next couple of hours in a room close to the entrance. The shelter was less crowded than it had been – many long-term residents had concluded that the outside world, with all its Russian shells and soldiers, offered a better chance of survival than a last-ditch SS fortress. And if Effi was not mistaken, some of the SS felt the same. As she and Rosa waited to leave, several young supermen stopped to stroke the girl’s hair and wish them good luck, tears in their pure blue eyes.

The transport was late arriving, and it was almost nine when the call came to climb the stairs. Effi hadn’t breathed any outside air for several days, and the stars sprinkled above the shelter entrance gave her reason to smile. Potsdamerplatz, by contrast, was a wilderness of rubble. Since their vigil earlier in the week, the last facades had been torn away, and what remained bore an eerie resemblance to an ancient ring of stones.

Their lorry was pumping dark exhaust, its tailgate lowered to allow them aboard. There were fifteen of them, mostly medical staff that Effi recognised, with only a couple of hangers-on. Most seemed in high spirits, as if they were heading off on an adventure, rather than driving through shell-fire to another bastion of useless resistance.

In fact, there seemed to be a lull in the shelling. As they drove south on Potsdamer Strasse a full moon rose through the ruins behind them, and the city seemed more at peace than it had for weeks. They rattled over the hump-backed Potsdamer Bridge and turned right along the southern bank of the Landwehrkanal. Through the open back of the lorry Effi saw moonlight dancing on the gently rippling water, and the sudden eruption of flames from a building on the north bank. Another explosion followed, this one further back.

The lorry’s engine started to cough. It limped on a few more metres and then suddenly jerked to a halt.

The driver was still fending off complaints when shells began landing all around them. Everyone scrambled out of the lorry, most seeking cover between the wheels. Others crammed themselves into the nearest convenient doorway, leaving Effi, Annaliese and Rosa running for the shelter of an alley. They had only just reached it when a shell exploded behind them with an enormous ‘whumpf’, and hurried them on like a strong gust of wind. Effi turned to see another building ablaze on the far side of the canal, and a shell explode in the shallow water, sending up a huge spout for the moon to burnish. A shower of drops landed all around them.

‘Let’s find somewhere better,’ Annaliese insisted, already on her way. Effi went after her, Rosa’s hand held tight in her own.

Another shell landed behind them, and this time there were human screams as well. The entrance to the alley was a wall of flames.

They emerged into a small and apparently deserted mews. A garage with open doors looked inviting, but offered no real protection. They hurried on down the narrow street, Effi conscious that they were heading south, and probably towards the Russians. The shell-fire seemed to have stopped, and she was wondering whether they should walk back towards the canal, or at least look for a road leading west, when she saw the car peeking out of its garage.

It was a black Hanomag, like the one that John had owned, the one in which he’d taught her to drive. She told Annaliese to wait, put down the suitcase, and went to inspect it. It had diplomatic plates, which was hardly surprising in an area known for its embassies.

‘You don’t suppose it has any petrol?’ Annaliese asked at her shoulder.

‘We have no key,’ Effi reminded her. Squeezing in alongside the driver’s door, she lowered the handle. It opened, but there the miracles ceased. There was nothing in the ignition.

Effi’s face fell, but Annaliese was smiling. ‘Gerd was a mechanic,’ she said impatiently. ‘I can start a car without a key if there’s any fuel in its tank. Here are some matches. Have a look at the gauge.’

Effi struck one, and tried to make sense of the instruments. ‘There might be some,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Well, get out of there and let me have a go.’

Effi did as she was told, and waited with Rosa outside the garage. ‘Can we just take a car?’ Rosa asked doubtfully.

‘As long as we bring it back,’ Effi reassured her. She had almost given up on Annaliese’s promise when the car’s engine sprang noisily to life. There was a grinding of gears, and it inched forward out of the garage, a beaming Annaliese at the wheel. ‘Your taxi, Madam!’

Effi climbed in beside her, Rosa in the back.

‘Where shall we go?’ Annaliese asked.

‘I’d like to go home,’ Effi said.

‘Me too,’ Rosa agreed from the rear.

‘And you can stay with us until it’s over,’ Effi suggested to Annaliese.

‘I’ll think about it. I might just drive on to Spandau once I’ve delivered you two. If that’s all right with you. You found the car.’

‘You’re welcome to it.’

They drove slowly down the mews, turned right at the end, and soon found themselves on Lützow Strasse. Two military lorries went by in the opposite direction, but the once-busy avenue was otherwise empty of traffic. The moonlight was strong enough to steer by, and Annaliese turned off the lights. Driving round Lützowplatz she struck two pieces of rubble in quick succession, which shook everyone up but failed to slow the Hanomag.

It was ten in the evening but felt like four in the morning. Distant explosions flared in the wing mirrors but the world ahead seemed fast asleep. They arced round the ruined Memorial Church and under the railway bridge on Hardenberg Strasse. There was a barricade up ahead, so at Effi’s suggestion Annaliese took a tight left turn and drove back down to Kant Strasse. A right fork at Savignyplatz brought them onto Grolman Strasse, which was just about passable.

‘Our place is just round the corner,’ Effi said hopefully, as they passed the ruins of the Schiller Theatre. If Grolman Strasse was anything to go by, the area had taken a pasting in her absence.

Annaliese stopped the car a prudent few metres short of the intersection, and examined the petrol gauge by the light of a struck match. It had risen slightly. ‘I’ll keep going,’ she decided. ‘It can’t be much more than five kilometres from here, and Gerd’s family could probably do with some help – they’re quite old. And if they don’t I can try and reach the Americans.’

The two women embraced, and Effi got out. Rosa primly reminded Annaliese that she had to take the car back once the war was over, and looked somewhat put out when the nurse just laughed.

She inched the car round the corner and, once reassured, accelerated out of sight.

Effi and Rosa followed. Bismarck Strasse had suffered fewer recent depredations than Grolman, and their building was still standing. This was reassuring, even though life was now lived in the shelter. Descending the steps, the first person they met was Frau Pflipsen, happily puffing on a Turkish cigarette. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked. ‘Your brother’s been here since yesterday.’

‘My brother?’ Effi echoed. ‘Which one?’ she improvised. ‘I have so many.’

‘I don’t know. He’s upstairs in your flat, I think. I’ve told him several times what a risk he’s taking, but he doesn’t seem to appreciate the danger. I don’t suppose they’ve had much bombing in Beeskow.’

‘No, probably not. I’ll go up and get him. But you stay here with Frau Pflipsen,’ she told Rosa. ‘I won’t be long.’

Effi hurried back up the steps, across the yard and into her building. It had to be Aslund, she thought. But what was he doing here? Was he on the run, after all this time? It didn’t seem likely.

She trudged wearily up the stairs, and opened the unlocked door.

It was John, sitting in the chair by the window, apparently asleep. She let out a small gasp of delight. She couldn’t believe it. Where had he come from? And how? She rushed towards him.

As she placed her hands on his shoulders his eyes opened.

‘Effi,’ he said, as if everything was right with the world. She looked thinner, exhausted, about ten years older. He had never seen anything half so beautiful.

He stood up, and they dissolved into each other’s arms.

‘How did you find me?’ she asked after a few moments.

‘Zarah told me where you lived.’

‘But she doesn’t…’

‘She saw you in the street once and followed you. She needed to know where you lived.’

Effi shook her head in amazement. ‘But how did you find Zarah? How did you get to Berlin?’

The Russians brought me. Would you believe I jumped from a plane out beyond Gatow?

She couldn’t help laughing. ‘Oh John, this is so wonderful.’

‘I had to get to you,’ he said simply. They stood there, hands on each other’s shoulders, staring into each other’s eyes.

‘I saw Paul yesterday,’ Effi said.

He gripped her shoulders a little tighter. ‘Where? Is he okay?’

‘It was in the big shelter at Potsdam Station. He was in the hospital, but he wasn’t badly hurt – just a concussion. He’s in uniform, of course, but he’d lost touch with his unit. Some SS bastards told him to report in at the Zoo Bunker, and I suppose he’s still there.’

Russell’s elation was edged with panic – his son was alive, but still at risk. And only a couple of kilometres away. ‘How did he seem?’

Effi grimaced. ‘It’s hard to say. He was the same old Paul, and he wasn’t. He’s so much bigger than I remember, but that’s… he seemed overwhelmed, but what young man wouldn’t be after what they’ve all been through? You know that Ilse and Matthias were killed?’

‘No, no I didn’t. When? How?’

‘Last year in a car accident. Out in the country. They reached the crest of a hill at the same moment as an army lorry. They were both killed outright.’

‘Christ.’ Russell had a sudden picture of Ilse in the foreign comrades’ canteen, all those years ago. Paul would have been devastated. An utterly selfish thought crossed his mind: his son would need him now. ‘Has Paul forgiven me?’ he asked Effi.

‘I don’t know. He asked after you. He didn’t sound angry.’

A shell exploded some way up the street, momentarily lighting up the room.

‘Where did you see Zarah?’ Effi asked. ‘Is she all right?’

‘“All right” might be an exaggeration. Jens tried to interest her in some suicide pills, so she walked out on him.’

‘Ten years too late – no, I suppose Lothar was worth it. But… So she’s back in Schmargendorf. Aren’t the Russians there already?’

‘Yes. She was expecting them. She… well, I don’t think she’s under any illusions. She told me she plans to stay alive for Lothar.’

‘Oh God,’ Effi murmured, as another explosion echoed down the street. But there was nothing she could do for her sister – the Russians would be between them by now. ‘We really should go down to the shelter,’ she told Russell.

‘Okay.’

‘Why were you up here?’ she asked, taking his hand.

He smiled. ‘Would you believe I wanted to be close to you?’

‘I think I might,’ she said, and gave him a kiss. ‘But we must go down,’ she insisted, as another shell exploded, closer this time. ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ she added, as they descended the stairs.

‘Not a new boyfriend, I hope.’

‘No, just a new member of the family.’

‘What?’

Effi paused at the top of the basement steps. ‘She’s seven years old and Jewish, and all her family are dead. I’ve more or less adopted her.’

‘Right,’ Russell said lightly. He could see a small fair-haired girl hovering at the bottom of the steps, staring up at them.

They went down. ‘This is John,’ Effi told the girl, after checking that no one else was in earshot. ‘But we’ll pretend he’s my brother until the war ends.’ She turned to Russell. ‘And this is Rosa. We’ve had a lot of adventures together.’

The girl gave Russell a hopeful look, and offered a hand to shake.

Russell took it. ‘I hear you’re part of the family now,’ he said with a smile. ‘And I’d love to hear about all your adventures.’

‘Of course,’ Rosa told him, ‘but we have to wait until after the war is over. We sleep through here,’ she added, leading the way into the large basement room. Most of the inhabitants had already turned in, and one of two burning candles was snuffed out as they wended their way to the far corner. ‘Our beds are still here, but someone has slept in mine,’ Rosa whispered.

‘That would be me,’ Russell whispered back. ‘I didn’t know it was yours.’

‘That’s all right.’

Rosa and Effi took one camp bed, Russell the other, which suited the child rather better than him.

Despite trying hard to stay awake – she didn’t want to feel left out, Effi realised – Rosa was soon asleep. The two grown-ups conversed in whis-pers, and she told him about Paul’s meeting with his uncle. ‘Thomas is also planning to survive,’ Effi remembered. ‘Like Zarah.’

The shelling outside was much more sporadic, and Russell realised he wouldn’t need much encouragement to let desire get the better of sense.

He got none. ‘I can’t leave her down here on her own,’ Effi said, in answer to his suggestion of a trip upstairs. If she woke up and found we were both gone… well…’

‘You’re right,’ Russell told her. ‘It was a stupid idea.’

‘Not that stupid,’ she said, carefully disentangling herself from the sleeping child. ‘And I can at least join you over there.’

But entwined and kissing on the narrow camp bed, the issue became rather more pressing. ‘Have the customs changed since 1941?’ Russell eventually whispered. ‘Is lovemaking in air-raid shelters permitted these days?’

‘Not between brother and sister.’

‘Oh.’

‘So we’ll have to be very quiet.’