Stattin Station

Rolf and Eva Vollmar

Kuzorra inserted the sheaf of papers, fastened the straps on the briefcase, and handed it across. 'Your chances of making use of this are better than mine,' he said. 'Are you ready?'

'As I'll ever be,' Russell told him. His mind was still straining to catch up.

Out in the blissfully empty corridor, Kuzorra hesitated for a second, then chose a direction. 'Try to look less like a hunted animal,' he murmured as they walked towards the distant stairwell. A typewriter was clacking behind one door, voices audible behind another, but that was all.

They reached the top of the stairs at the same time as another uniformed officer. He brushed past them, offering Kuzorra a cursory greeting but hardly glancing at Russell. If questions were asked, the latter realised, the detective would find it difficult to explain why he had chosen to escort a wanted man off the premises. 'I do know the way out,' Russell said, as they hurried down the stairs. 'There's no point in us both being caught.'

'If that was true, I'd still be in my office,' Kuzorra said bluntly. 'You won't get out the way we came in.'

'If you say so.' He had counted eight flight of stairs when Kuzorra turned off down a brightly-lit corridor and headed, if Russell's directional sense was still functioning, for the interior courtyard. Another couple of turns and they seemed to be heading back towards the main frontage on Dircksenstrasse. A man in a long white coat and rubber gloves suddenly emerged in front of them, gave them an indifferent glance, and disappeared through an opposite doorway. A faint whiff of formaldehyde told Russell that they were close to the morgue, and he suddenly recognised the seating area where he'd waited more than two years previously with Eleanor McKinley before viewing her brother's body. The lost property department beyond was unstaffed, the No.2 door to the main street bolted shut for the night.

'Do you know where you are?' Kuzorra asked, as he gently pulled back the bolts.

'Yes. And thanks,' Russell said, offering his hand 'Good luck,' the detective said, shaking it firmly but briefly. As he opened one side of the double doors, a flurry of snow blew in.

Russell stepped out into the darkness, heard the door shut behind him, and fought back a rising sense of panic. One step at a time, he told himself. Turn right. Walk down to the square. Catch a train or a tram. Each step along the front of the police building seemed fraught with danger, those that carried him across the front of the No.1 entrance almost impossibly so; but no voices suddenly cried out, and no car suddenly screeched to a halt beside him.

A train, he told himself, as one rattled its way along the elevated lines to his left. He had to get out of Berlin, and trains from Alexanderplatz Station served all corners of the Reich. He had enough money on him, and he had his papers. They would surely be good for a few hours more - the Gestapo wouldn't know that he'd been warned. There would be men waiting at the flat, maybe at the press clubs, at the Adlon. And probably at his son's home, he thought with a sinking heart.

And Effi. Could he leave without at least trying to say goodbye? He couldn't read his watch in the darkness, but she would probably still be waiting for him at the Chinese restaurant. He could telephone her there, he thought, and hurried his pace towards the station.

The public booths on the street level concourse all seemed occupied, but a woman emerged from one just as he arrived. He picked up the still-warm receiver and, after another moment's panic, remembered the number. He dialled it, hoping that Ho Lung would answer. The young man's Chinese-accented German might be barely decipherable, but it was the only German on offer.

He was in luck. 'This is John Russell,' he said, as slowly and distinctly as he could manage. 'Is Fraulein Koenen there? We were supposed to meet at seven.'

'I go see,' Ho Lung said, and there was a loud thunk as he put the mouthpiece down.

As he stared out through the glass door at the milling people, the concourse clock caught Russell's eye. It was a few minutes past eight. Surely Effi would have gone home by this time.

He heard Ho Lung pick up the earpiece. 'She go,' the young man said. 'One minute, maybe two.'

Russell took a deep breath. 'Ho Lung, please, can you do me a big favour? Go after her, and bring her back. I need to talk to her. A matter of life and death, believe me.'

'Oh. But where? Which street?'

'She will be walking east, past the Universum, towards the Memorial Church. Please.'

'Okay.'

Russell sank down onto the booth seat. He had a mental picture of Ho Lung leaving the restaurant, hurrying down the snow-covered boulevard, cursing himself in Chinese for agreeing to this mad search in almost total darkness.

The telephone demanded another infusion of cash, and Russell leapt back to his feet, frantically rummaging through his pockets for the necessary pfennigs. Several coins fell to the floor, but there was enough in his hand to prolong the call. He squatted down to retrieve the others, and rose to his feet just as an impatient-looking woman tapped on his door. He raised five fingers and turned his back on her.

'John,' Effi said, in the tone of someone who'd been kept waiting for an hour.

'The Gestapo are after me,' he said without preamble. 'Kuzorra tipped me off, and I assume they're waiting at Carmerstrasse. I've got to get out of Berlin, but I want to see you before I go...'

'Why are they after you?' she asked, wondering as she did so where such a sensible question had come from. 'How serious is it?'

'The business two years ago. It couldn't be more serious.'

'But where can you go?'

'I've no idea, but...'

'Where shall we meet?' she interjected.

They were both about fifteen minutes from Zoo Station. The buffet would be crowded at this time of night, but it was also well lit. 'Zoo Station, the eastbound platform,' he decided.

'Where are you?' she asked.

He told her.

'I've got a better idea,' she said. 'You remember that bar on Friedrichstrasse, just up from the station? Siggi's. Let's meet there.'

'But...'

'I'll explain later. Trust me.'

'All right.'

'I'll make sure I'm not being followed.'

There was a click as she hung up the phone. Why Friedrichstrasse, he wondered. He hung up his own earpiece, and thought about calling Paul. He felt an intense need to tell his son, to prepare him for what was coming, to say how sorry he was. But he knew he couldn't. The Gehrts' line might be tapped by now, and the less he implicated them the better.

The same applied to Thomas.

A different woman was now raising a hand to tap the window. He acknowledged her and exited the booth, scanning the concourse for uniforms and leather coats. There were none in sight, but if they were watching the main line stations they would be at the entrance to the platforms. Was that why Effi had vetoed Zoo Station? If so, she was proving a lot quicker on her feet than he was.

He could take the S-Bahn to Friedrichstrasse, but a tram would probably be safer. Back out on Alexanderplatz he waited impatiently for one to arrive. Behind him the huge bulk of the police building was screened by snow and darkness, but he could almost feel its presence, as if the energy of all those men engaged in tracking him down was sweeping out across the city like a psychic searchlight.

The tram came. It wasn't full, and everyone on board had the opportunity to examine him and raise the alarm. No one did. He was just another German heading home.

The tram rumbled slowly down Konigstrasse, its thin blue headlights revealing nothing but rails and snow. With no visual clues as to location, the passengers were all cocking their ears for familiar sounds, like the echoing rumbles provided by the bridges across the Spree River and Canal. Thinking he had made out the vague silhouette of the Franzosische Church, Russell got off at the next stop and found himself close to Friedrichstrasse.

He walked north towards the station, passing Cafe Kranzler and crossing the snow-swept Unter den Linden. Continuing up Friedrichstrasse, he passed under the iron railway bridge and eventually singled out Siggi's Bar from the line of blacked-out premises beyond. The light inside was momentarily blinding, but his eyes soon adjusted and took in the usual Sunday evening customers - a group of older men playing skat, several individual soldiers with female company, a couple of men in a corner who looked to be holding hands under the table.

Assuming Effi was taking the S-Bahn, the trip should take her about half an hour, which meant another ten minutes. He ordered whatever was passing for schnapps, and drank it down in one gulp. He ordered another, and took that to one of the tables, ignoring the middle-aged barman's obvious desire for a chat. He looked like one of those men who were always recognising Effi.

Not that this would matter unless Russell's own name, and his association with hers, had already been broadcast on the radio. It didn't seem likely, but the possibility had obviously occurred to Effi as well - she arrived with hat pulled almost over her eyes, scarf wrapped round her mouth and nose.

'Let's go,' she said through the scarf, before Russell had time to offer her a drink. Outside on the pavement she grabbed him tightly by the arm and began steering him back towards the station.

'Where are we going?' he asked, amused in spite of himself.

'Wedding,' she said succinctly.

'Wedding?' It was north Berlin's most down-at-heel area, full of factories and old apartment blocks. Before the Nazis it had been a KPD fortress.

They reached the wide bridge which carried the Reichsbahn and S-Bahn tracks across the street, and Effi pulled him into a niche beside the closed newspaper kiosk. 'There's something I've kept from you,' she said, placing a hand on each of his shoulders. 'I have an apartment in Wedding. On Prinz-Eugen-Strasse.'

'You what?'

'Well, it's not mine. I rent it. Since the end of last year actually.'

'But...'

'I thought this day would come,' she said simply.

He looked at her, dumbfounded. 'But aren't the neighbours a bit surprised to have a film star living in their block? And won't they...'

'They don't know I'm a film star,' Effi said patiently. 'I don't rent it as myself. I rent it as a fifty-five-year-old woman who spends most of her time with her children on their farm in Saxony, but who wants somewhere to stay in Berlin, where all her old friends are. I didn't go through all those lessons in make-up from Lili Rohde for fun. No one on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse has seen me out of character, and we have to pray that no one sees us going in tonight.'

For the second time that evening, Russell was lost for words.

'We can't hide there for ever,' Effi continued, 'but it should give us a breathing space while we work out what we're going to do.'

'We?'

'Of course "we". But we can discuss all that when we get there. Let's get on the U-Bahn.'

There was no watch on the U-Bahn entrance, but the train was just crowded enough to inhibit further conversation, and neither spoke again before they reached their Leopold platz stop. Russell was still struggling to adjust. How had she arranged all this without his noticing? He had always known that Effi had many strengths, but he had never thought that strategic planning was one of them.

Back on the surface, it seemed noticeably darker than downtown, but Effi picked their way through the grid of streets without apparent difficulty. 'It's not the Adlon,' she said, as they reached the end of Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, 'but there is a private toilet. I thought we should see as little of the neighbours as possible. The concierge is old and deaf, which has to help, and the original block warden seemed like a nice man. He was one of my reasons for choosing this place, but he died in the summer. I haven't met his replacement, but the woman across the landing doesn't like him. Her husband is in Russia by the way. From the way she talks I'd say he was a Red in the old days.'

She stopped by the entrance to a courtyard. 'This is it,' she said, pulling her keys from her coat pocket, and heading for the doors on the left hand side. The walls of the buildings rose up into darkness, leaving Russell with the impression that he was standing at the bottom of a deep well.

The key turned smoothly, and Effi pushed into the dimly-lit interior. There was no sight or sound of the portierfrau, and they climbed the two flights of stairs to the first floor. Another door, another key, and they were safe inside the apartment.

It was better than Russell had expected. The block's heating was obviously adequate, and the flat, though decidedly cramped, seemed pleasant enough. The living room had space for two armchairs, a side table and two upright chairs. The kitchen, though essentially a passage leading to the small bathroom, had an electric stove and several wall cupboards well-stocked with provisions. 'A film star's perks,' Effi explained. In the bathroom itself, the various elements of her make-up kit were laid out on another narrow table.

The bedroom was just large enough to accommodate a double bed and wardrobe. Opening the latter, Russell was surprised to find a selection of his own clothes, including several of the items he had given up for lost. 'I brought all the photographs of you,' she said behind him. 'I'm afraid they won't have any trouble finding ones of me.'

He turned to embrace her. 'You're absolutely unbelievable,' he said.

'And I bought the Rugen Island jigsaw which we never got round to doing,' she added once their hug had loosened.

He didn't know whether to laugh or weep.

'I'll boil some water,' she said.

He sat down, ran a hand through his hair. He had to convince her to go back, but the thought of losing her seemed scarier than ever. Too much had happened too quickly. Much too much. He got back to his feet intent on pacing, but the room wasn't big enough. A look around the edge of the window screening revealed only darkness.

She brought in two tin mugs of tea. 'No milk, I'm afraid.'

He took his and held her eye. 'Effi, they're only after me. You had no part in the business two years ago, and there's no way they could prove otherwise. Tomorrow morning, you should go back to Carmerstrasse and... in fact, the best thing you can do is go to the Alex and report me missing.'

She smiled and shook her head. 'John, you know as well as I do that they'll arrest me. And I'm not going back to the Gestapo, not voluntarily. The last time was bad enough, and this time they'd want to know where you are. I'd have a choice between telling them, and wasting all the effort I've put into this place, or not telling them, and having them do God knows what to me. I'm not doing it, so forget that idea right now. We're in this together - if you get out then I get out; if you don't, then I don't want to either.'

'But you're making yourself an accessory,' Russell argued. 'Helping an enemy of the Reich, that's treason. They could execute you. At the very least, they'll put you in Ravensbruck.'

'I know that. And I'm scared. I expect you are too.'

'What about your career?' he asked stupidly.

'I used to enjoy it,' she admitted. 'All of it - the work, the money, being recognised. But not any more. Either it changed or I did. Or both. Whatever it was, it's over now. GPU will have to soldier on without me. And you have to think up some way of getting us out of the country. I know you can. It's the sort of thing you're good at.'

Russell wasn't so sure, but decided to play along. A discussion of the difficulties might make her see sense. 'All right,' he agreed. 'But we have to look at all the options. One,' he began, tapping his left thumb with his right index finger, 'we can give ourselves up. Two, I can try gate-crashing the American Consulate and you can go back home.' He raised a palm to stifle her protest. 'We're looking at all the options, and that's one of them. The bastards have nothing against you, and if they know where I am, then there's no need for them to question you.'

'You're not listening to me,' she said quietly.

'I am,' he insisted. 'I'll try to find a way to get us both out. But if there's no way to do that, then I'd rather go down alone than take you with me.'

'But you said yourself - there's a good chance they'd just walk into the Consulate and drag you out.'

'They might. They might not. But I'll take the chance. Effi, I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for no good reason.'

'Love is a good reason.'

'Okay, but love should be a reason to live. And if I'm going down anyway, I'd feel a lot happier knowing that you weren't. Wouldn't you feel the same way?'

'I don't know.'

'Look, let's get back to the options. If we're not giving ourselves up, we're left with two - either spend the war in hiding inside Germany, or find some way of getting out. A life in hiding doesn't look too promising - how would we eat, for a start?'

'I'd rather get out,' she admitted.

'Okay, we could try and get across a border. Switzerland is the obvious choice, being neutral, and I have a feeling we could survive in Denmark if we got there. Going east would be suicidal, going west... well, Holland, Belgium and France are all occupied, and we wouldn't be safe until we got to Spain, which is a hell of a long way away. So, Switzerland or Denmark. But how do we get there? We can't use our own papers, and neither of us - as far as I know - has any facility at forging documents.'

'No,' she agreed, walking into the bedroom and rummaging under the bed. 'But I do have these,' she said, pulling out an apparent pile of brown paper. She spread the paper out, revealing the uniform of an SS Sturmbannfuhrer. 'I also have a Luftwaffe pilot, a Reichfrauenschaft official and a nurse,' she added.

Russell shook his head in amazement. 'From the wardrobe department?' he guessed.

'I was spoilt for choice,' she confessed.

'They might come in useful,' he said, 'but without new papers... Any long distance train journey, there are checks every hour or so. And the moment someone asks for ours, we're done for. We wouldn't get a second chance.'

'Oh.'

'We'll have to get some papers from somewhere,' he said. Precisely where was another matter. Zembski's demise, while always unfortunate for Zembski, now also seemed fatal to their own prospects. Russell couldn't look up another Comintern forger in the Berlin telephone directory.

But he did still have a line to the comrades. Strohm could - and probably would - pass on a request for help.

Would they help? Russell felt he was owed - it was, after all, his passing of naval secrets to the Soviets which had put the Gestapo on his tail. Then again, Stalin and his NKVD were not known for their nostalgic sense of gratitude. But he would have to try them. There was no one else. Kenyon would want to help, if only to get his hands on Sullivan's papers, but now that the Gestapo had abandoned all pretence of following the diplomatic rules there was nothing he could actually do.

'I'll go to Strohm,' he said. 'My railwayman,' he added, remembering he had never told Effi the name. 'He may be able to help us, either with getting hold of some papers, or even with getting us out of the country.'

'That sounds good,' she agreed, deciding to share in his confidence. They had to remain positive, or they were lost. She took a peek round the corner of the window screen. 'There's not going to be an air raid tonight, is there?'

'Not unless the British have completely lost their senses.'

'Good. We can wait until morning before turning you into my older brother...'

'Your brother!?'

'My husband died some years ago, and I'm much too old for a fancy man.' She thought for a moment. 'We should probably leave something to suggest that you're sleeping in here, just in case we have visitors.'

'Can't we just bolt the door?'

'We can at night. But it'll look a bit suspicious during the day.'

'You're probably right,' he admitted.

'You know your English saying about clouds having a golden lining?'

'Silver.'

'Whichever. Well, I don't have to get up at half past four in the morning. The limousine driver will bang on our door in vain.'

'The neighbours will be ecstatic.'

She laughed, the first time she had done so that evening. 'I think I'm ready for bed,' she said. 'Not that I think I'll sleep.'

She did though, much to Russell's surprise. If the truth were told, she had amazed him almost daily since their first meeting almost eight years before. He lay awake in the dark unfamiliar room, marvelling at her resourcefulness, fearful of what the future held for them both. At least they still had each other. He told himself how lucky he had been to meet and know her, to be loved by her. All in all, he decided, he had enjoyed a fairly charmed forty-two years on the planet. He had grown up in a rich country at peace; he had, unlike so many of his friends, survived the horror of the trenches with both body and mind intact. He had been there in the thick of things after the war, when the world seemed dizzy with the hope of something better. That dream might have died, but he wouldn't have missed the dreaming. He had mostly enjoyed his work; he had her and a wonderful, healthy son.

The trouble was, he wanted another forty-two years.

He could just about envisage an escape, but the chances were thin. Better of course than those of the Jews, now that Heydrich and Co. were ordering indicator-free pesticides in vast quantities. Europe's Jews looked doomed. Even if Moscow survived, if the Soviets held out and the Americans entered the war against Germany before the year was out, the Nazis would still have time for a killing spree that sane people would struggle to find imaginable. He thought about the briefcase sitting in the other room, and Sullivan's handwritten postscript to all the proof of corporate perfidy. Would the governments in London, Washington and Moscow be convinced? And even if they were, would they care?

They woke together, a sign of change if ever there was one. He made them cups of ersatz coffee and told her what he'd found in Sullivan's briefcase. She sat there, staring into space and wondering at her own lack of surprise.

'We need a newspaper,' Russell announced, once they'd done the usual ablutions and eaten their usual breakfast. 'We need to know if all Berlin is looking for us, or only the Gestapo.'

She greyed his hair and eyebrows, lined his face, and fixed the small moustache, assuring him that the latter wouldn't fall off if he sneezed. 'When we do come to take it off, you'll realise how firmly it's attached,' she added ominously. She also insisted on his wearing gloves and the woolly hat. His head wound was healing faster than he expected, but the tiny lawn in his meadow of hair was something of a giveaway.

'I'll do myself while you're out,' she said, handing him a pair of keys. 'You remember who you are?'

'Rolf Vollmar. From Gelsenkirchen,' he said promptly. 'My house was bombed out by the British, and I'm staying with my sister Eva until I'm fully recovered.'

'Good,' she said. 'Do you know how to get back to the U-Bahn station?'

'I'm sure I can find it.'

'Right outside the door. Then left, right and left again.'

He let himself out and descended the stairs, feeling more than a little nervous. He knew how good Effi was at make-up, how long she had practised the difficult art of using theatrical make-up outside the theatre, but he still found it hard to believe that people would be taken in by his disguise.

There was no sign of the portierfrau, and no one on the snow-covered street. There were plenty of footprints though, large ones for the workers now ensconced in the factories, small ones for the children now at their school desks. There was also a strong smell of bread being baked, which presumably came from a nearby bakery. The odour was actually enticing, which raised the interesting question of what happened to the loaves between factory and shop.

He walked towards the first turning, taking care not to slip on a patch of ice - this was no time for breaking a bone. Effi's insistence on sharing whatever fate had in store had meant a lot to him, but in the cold light of morning he found himself wondering how selfish he was being. Should he just take off, take a local train away from Berlin, and try working his way towards a border in short and hopefully inconspicuous leaps? He might get near enough to try a night crossing on foot. It was possible.

But would it save her? Probably not. They would probably arrest her and torture her. If by some miracle he got out, the Gestapo wouldn't just smile, admit defeat, and move on; that wasn't their style. They'd want someone to punish, and she would be available.

Or was he just frightened of striking out alone?

He didn't know. He would try with Strohm, but he wasn't hopeful. He thought Strohm would agree to carry the message, but the chances of a swift reply, let alone a positive one, seemed remote. The most likely outcome was a long and dangerous wait culminating in refusal. Why would the comrades rush to help him? Unlike two years ago, he had nothing to offer them. They weren't interested in the perfidy of American corporations; they took that for granted.

Reaching the wide Mullerstrasse, he could see the kiosk outside the Leopoldplatz U-Bahn station. The level of traffic reminded him of a prewar Sunday, and only a handful of pedestrians were out on the pavements. A stiff breeze was funnelling down the street, and he instinctively placed two fingers over the false moustache to hold it in place.

When he reached the kiosk the proprietor, an old man wearing a woolly hat remarkably similar to his own was deep in conversation with what looked like a regular customer. He paused to serve Russell, who remembered at the last moment that the Volkischer Beobachter was unlikely to be the paper of choice in an old Red stronghold like Wedding. He asked for Der Angriff and the Berlin edition of the Frankfurter Zeitung, and thumbed anxiously through them in search of his former face.

'You won't find the latest news in there,' the regular customer volunteered, causing Russell to look up with something approaching alarm.

'The Japanese have attacked the Americans,' the old proprietor said mournfully.

'In Hawaii,' the customer added. 'Their big naval base there.'

'When?' Russell asked.

'Yesterday, I think. The man on the radio wasn't too clear. I mean, it's probably the middle of the night there now, but whether it's yesterday night or tomorrow night I couldn't tell you.'

Russell couldn't help smiling - he had never got the hang of the International Date Line himself. 'But the Americans haven't declared war on us?'

'Not yet,' the customer said cheerfully.

Effi was going through the normal motions, bathing in what seemed ample hot water, but feeling far from normal. After drying herself, she carried the wall-mirror into the living room, propped it up on the table, and began turning herself into Eva Vollmar. Dabbing away with the make-up brush, she told herself that anticipating a turn of events was not the same as being ready for one. The very real possibility that she would never see her sister, parents or nephew again was hard to accept. Impossible, in fact.

She got up abruptly and switched on the People's Radio, hoping for some music to lift her spirits. It was Wagner, who always left her feeling more depressed. She turned him off, and resisted a sudden urge to throw the radio across the room.

Her transformation complete, she pulled back the screening from the street and courtyard windows, letting the sunlight in. What she could see of the street was empty, and she found herself wondering what she would do if Russell was arrested and didn't come back. Go back home and start clamouring for his release, she supposed.

And then he hove into view, paper under his arm, ridiculous woolly hat on his head, exhaling clouds of life into the cold air. Watching him walking towards her, she felt love well up inside her.

'The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbour,' were his first words on entering, before her new appearance left him temporarily speechless.

'Where's that?' she asked.

'In Hawaii, in the middle of the Pacific. It's the main American naval base.'

'So America is in the war now?'

'It's at war with Japan. They might not want to take on Germany at the same time. I don't know.'

'Oh,' she said, disappointed. For a moment an end had seemed in sight.

'But I can't see how they'll be able to keep the two wars separate,' Russell added thoughtfully. He imagined the scene in the Consulate on Unter den Linden. They would be destroying all the papers, preparing themselves for internment. Any lingering chance of help from that quarter was well and truly gone. He wondered whether George Welland would ever get out now.

'What about us?' Effi asked. 'Are we in the paper?'

'No, not yet. This evening perhaps, but I think it'll only be me. I don't think Goebbels will be keen to let on that one of his favourite actresses has gone over to the enemy.'

'But I haven't,' she said instinctively. 'I'm not against Germany. I'm against them.'

'I know you are,' Russell admitted. 'But they think they are Germany.'

'They're not.'

'I know. Look, I've got to try and see Strohm, and it might as well be today. There's no point in waiting.'

'No,' Effi agreed, hope rising in her eyes.

Seeing that hope, Russell wished he had something to justify it. How could he convince the comrades to help them?

It only took him a few minutes to remember Franz Knieriem.

The sky was clouding over again as he walked down Gartenstrasse, the vast bulk of the Lazarus Hospital rearing up in front of him, the long low buildings of the Stettiner Goods Station lining the other side of the street. Johann's Cafe was sandwiched between a closed cobbler's and a barber's, its steamed-up windows as effective as curtains at concealing the interior. He pushed open the door and walked in.

The cafe was larger inside than he expected, a long narrow room some four metres wide and over twenty long, with tables for four and eight flanking a single aisle that stretched into the gloomy interior. Almost all were occupied by men, most of them in overalls, a few in suits. Three waitresses were taking and delivering orders, flitting to and fro between the tables and a small counter area halfway down, which was obviously connected by dumb waiter to the floor above or below.

Russell walked two-thirds of the way down and then retraced his steps. There was no sign of Strohm, and a table near the entrance seemed his safest bet. He took an empty seat on one of the large tables, smiling back at the curious glances of the five men already sitting there. The food looked less than inviting, but then he hadn't really felt hungry since Kuzorra's revelation. When the waitress - a pinched-face girl of about fourteen - arrived to take his order, he just asked for a bowl of whatever soup was on offer. It was potato and cabbage, but when it came he detected few signs of the latter. He ate slowly, and by the time he was finished the cafe clock read almost twelve-twenty. On his way there he had fretted over whether Strohm would see through his disguise, but with each passing moment it seemed increasingly unlikely that the German-American would show up. The crowd was gradually thinning out, as if this particular shift was drawing to a close.

He ordered a coffee he didn't want and sat with it, hoping against hope. It was twenty-five to one when his prayers were answered, and Strohm walked in with three other men. Russell tried to catch the other man's eye, and thought he'd succeeded, but Strohm simply looked through him. His disguise was obviously effective.

The newcomers occupied a four-seater two tables down, Strohm next to the aisle with his back to the door. Now what? Russell asked himself. Should he just sit there and wait, and hope that Strohm noticed him on the way out? What if he didn't?

No, he had to make the running somehow. Strohm would probably recognise his voice.

He sipped at his coffee as they ordered, received and began eating their meals, then strode past their table to the counter and bought a packet of the cheapest cigarettes. He then walked slowly back down the aisle, apparently intent on opening the packet, actually willing Strohm to look up and notice him.

He didn't.

Russell played his last card, 'accidentally' scattering pfennigs alongside Strohm's table, and then sinking to his knees beside the German-American in order to retrieve them. 'I'm sorry about this,' he said, and thought he could feel the man beside him stiffen. Gathering up his last coin, Russell got to his feet, looked Strohm straight in the eye, and walked back to his table. He knew he'd been recognised. If only for a split second, Strohm's eyes had widened with surprise.

Ten minutes later Strohm left the cafe, making some excuse to his colleagues, and walked off alone up Gartenstrasse. Russell walked faster to catch him up. When he did so, Strohm eyed him with some amusement. 'Is this for a story?' he asked.

'I wish it was. The Gestapo are looking for me,' Russell announced without further preamble. He had spent most of the morning working out exactly what he needed to say in order to enlist Strohm's support.

'That's not good,' the other man said, taking a quick glance over his shoulder.

'I'm not being followed,' Russell told him. 'You didn't recognise me yourself when you walked into the cafe,' he added reassuringly.

'True,' Strohm said, with only the faintest hint of a smile. 'So how can I help you?'

'It's a long story, but I'll make it as short as possible. Two years ago - almost three now - I did some articles for the Soviet press at the request of the NKVD. Then, when I asked them for help in getting a Jewish boy out of Germany, they asked me to bring some secret papers out for them. We both kept our sides of the bargain - the boy got out, they got the papers, and everything seemed fine. Until now. The Gestapo have finally gotten hold of the whole story, and my part in it. So I need to get out, with my girlfriend. The comrades promised to get us out if things went wrong in 1939, and I'm hoping they'll help me now. And I'm hoping you'll know who to ask.'

'Of course I can ask, but...'

'I have something to offer in return,' Russell interrupted him. 'Back in June, Hitler told Mussolini that he would have bombers capable of hitting New York by the end of the year. If such bombers exist, they would also be capable of reaching Siberia, and bombing all the arms factories that the Soviets have just moved heaven and earth to relocate there.'

'Do they?' Strohm asked ingenuously.

'I don't know,' Russell said truthfully. 'But I can find out,' he added with more confidence than honesty.

'Ah.'

'I also have an answer to the question that we have been asking ourselves for the last month. They really do mean to wipe out the Jews.' He told Strohm about the Degesch pesticide and the SS ordering huge quantities without the usual indicator.

That stopped Strohm in his tracks. 'You have proof of this?' he asked, as if he still couldn't quite believe it.

'Yes,' Russell said, stretching the truth somewhat - Sullivan's hearsay was hardly proof in the usual sense of the word. 'And when I get out, I can tell the whole damn world what's happening.'

'I'll see what I can do,' Strohm promised him. 'How can I contact you now?'

Russell hesitated at the thought of giving out their new address, but it was a risk he had to take. He gave Strohm the details.

'And what name are you using?'

Russell's mind blanked for a moment. 'Rolf Vollmar,' he said eventually.

They went their separate ways. Now that the efficacy of his disguise had been proven, Russell felt confident enough to lengthen his walk home in search of an early evening paper. He found one on Mullerstrasse. Thumbing through it, he came upon a most unflattering picture of himself, along with the information that he was armed, dangerous and urgently wanted for questioning on matters 'vital to the security of the Reich'. Though American by birth, 'Mister' John Russell had learned to speak German like a native, presumably with espionage in mind.

More disturbingly, a recent studio photo of Effi accompanied his own. She had gone missing in suspicious circumstances, the writer claimed, before dropping a few heavy hints to the effect that she had been kidnapped by the American villain.

As Russell walked back, he found himself wondering how the portierfrau at his old digs in Hallesches Tor would be taking the news of his treachery. He could just see Frau Heidegger skulking in her doorway, newspaper in hand, waiting to discuss the story with any passing tenant. Would she believe the worst of him? Probably not. They'd always got on pretty well, and no one with half a brain trusted official stories any more.

Effi was not pleased with the photo - she thought it made her look like a simpering idiot - and the notion that she'd been abducted was laughable. 'No one who knows us would believe that you've carried me off against my will,' she said incredulously. 'And I can't imagine anyone else believing it - it all sounds like one of those white slaver romances they used to make in the twenties.'

'Goebbels' kind of film,' Russell murmured. He was rather pleased by the newspaper story - they were clearly offering Effi a possible alibi, if only to preserve appearances.

Over an early supper he told her how it had gone with Strohm and the comrades. She agreed that they had little to lose by approaching Knieriem, but still felt queasy at the prospect. 'What do you really know about him?' she asked.

'He's a forty-three-year-old Berliner with a high-placed job at the Air Ministry. He was a Social Democrat until 1933 and, according to one of his old friends who now lives in America, he always despised the Nazis. He married in the twenties, divorced in the early thirties. His older brother Kurt was sent to Dachau in 1933 after one of the round-ups in Neukolln, and died there a few days later, supposedly in a fight with other inmates. The Americans found nothing to suggest that Franz was hungry for revenge, but he has access to really important information, so they thought he was worth a shot. Particularly since it was my head they were raising above the parapet.'

'If I had to guess,' Effi said, 'I'd say his brother's death scared him into permanent submission.'

'It's not unlikely.'

'So what if he says no?'

'Then I beat a hasty retreat.'

'How big is he?'

'Big, but in the fat sense. I don't think I'll have any trouble getting away from him.'

'He might recognise you.'

'Strohm didn't. And what if he does?'

'He'll have the police swarming all over the place.'

'They'd be lucky to catch me in the blackout. But we shouldn't assume the worst - Knieriem may welcome the chance to betray his bosses. He was a Social Democrat once.'

Effi snorted. 'Wasn't it you who used to say that Mussolini was a communist once?'

'He was.'

'I rest my case.'

She might be right, Russell thought later as he lay there unable to sleep. Perhaps they were being foolish in trusting to Knieriem's former allegiances. And asking for information was not the only way of obtaining it.

Lying there, listening to Effi's breathing and the faint hum of the city outside, a plan began to take shape.

The next three days were spent in waiting. Neither of them was used to spending much of the day at home, let alone a home with so few possibilities for diversion. There was only uninspiring food, the radio, the jigsaw and each other, and by Wednesday the picture of Rugen Island had been completed. Effi insisted that it was her turn to go out for a newspaper, and overrode Russell's argument that she was more likely to be recognised. 'The neighbours know I'm here,' she said, 'and it would be suspicious if I never went out.'

She returned with a Volkischer Beobachter which contained fresh pictures of them both, along with news from the family. The well-known industrialist Thomas Schade had expressed his 'astonishment' at the charges facing his former brother-in-law, and earnestly entreated him to give himself up. Russell smiled at that, but not at the mention of his 'equally astonished' son, an exemplary member of the Hitlerjugend. Paul really would be shocked, if only at the seriousness of the alleged crime. He didn't like to think what else the boy might be feeling.

Zarah, too, had been interviewed. She was 'sick with worry' for her sister, and refused to believe that Effi had done anything wrong.

Effi, Russell noticed, was fighting off tears. 'We can't afford to waste the make-up,' she said angrily.

That evening the sirens sounded. They had debated the pros and cons of going down to the shelter, and decided that incurring the wrath of the block warden would be more dangerous than testing their disguises. The thought of being bombed didn't come into it - if they lost the bolthole, they were doomed in any case.

In the event, the three hours spent with the rest of the building's inhabitants passed uneventfully. The block warden seemed suspicious of them, but only, they quickly realised, because he was suspicious of everyone. Most people dozed or fussed over their children, and the light was dim enough to hide a circumcision ceremony, let alone their brilliant disguises. Watching the way Effi climbed the stairs after the all-clear sounded, Russell was almost convinced that she had aged twenty years in a couple of days. He was also quite pleased with his own simulation until she put him right. 'You're walking like an eighty-year-old with gout,' she told him once they were back in their room. 'I'll have to give you some lessons.'

The Fuhrer's return to Berlin had been announced the previous day, and on Thursday afternoon he spoke to the Reichstag. The whole nation was obliged to listen: turning their own radio off for a few seconds, they could still hear the voice in the distance, emanating from so many street and factory loudspeakers that it seemed to be seeping out of the earth and sky. The speech lasted for an hour and a half. Hitler began with a long, triumphalist report on how the war was going, though details of the current position were noticeably sparse. He claimed that the German war dead now amounted to 160,000, a figure which astonished and appalled Effi, but which Russell thought was probably an under-estimate. The second half of the speech was a long diatribe against Roosevelt, a man backed by the 'entire satanic insidiousness' of the Jews, a man bent only on destroying Germany on their behalf. It ended, predictably enough, with a list of the provocations that Germany had been forced to endure, and their necessary corollary, a formal declaration of war on the United States.

'He's done it,' Russell murmured with deep satisfaction. If ever the prospect of another nation entering a war was cause for celebration, then this was that moment. It was all over bar the dying, he thought.

Next morning a letter arrived for Rolf Vollmar. Its message was short and extremely sweet - 'The Kaiser Bar, Schwedter Strasse, 7pm on December 13. Ask for Rainer.'

Russell took a deep breath. Perhaps they would get out after all.

'That's tomorrow,' Effi pointed out.

'I'll go to Knieriem this evening. Just after dark.'

'Tell me if I'm being stupid,' Effi said, 'but surely the best you can get from this man is information. I mean, he's not going to have official documents at his home, is he? So there'll be nothing to show the comrades. You might just as well make something up.'

'That had occurred to me,' Russell admitted. 'If the worst comes to the worst, and Knieriem won't cooperate, that's what I'll have to do. But the real facts will come out eventually, and if it turns out that I've given false information to the Soviets there will be consequences. If Hitler loses this war, then Stalin will win it, and the NKVD will be settling a lot of old scores. I don't want us to be one of them. So while there's a chance of getting them the right information I think we should take it.'

'I suppose that makes sense,' she agreed reluctantly.

'Besides,' he added with a smile, 'I'd like to do something for the war effort.'

Franz Knieriem lived in Charlottenburg, about halfway between the S-Bahn station of that name and the Bismarckstrasse U-Bahn station. It would have been quicker to take the overground train, but Russell felt safer in the overcrowded U-Bahn. He also needed a public toilet without a resident attendant, and the only one he knew in central Berlin was secreted away next to the suburban platforms at Potsdam Station.

The first leg on the U-Bahn was uneventful. He got a seat, wedged the large travel bag between his legs, and hid behind his paper until the time came to change at Leipzigerstrasse. Another stop, and he was soon wending his way across the Potsdam Station concourse. Reaching the chosen toilet, he shut himself in a cubicle, waited until the man next door had departed, and pulled the SS uniform from the bag. The Sicherheitsdienst were as likely to wear plain clothes as uniforms, but someone like Knieriem would probably ask to see identification if he was wearing the latter. The uniform spoke for itself.

Back at Prinz-Eugen-Strasse he had tried it on, and discovered that the sleeves and trousers were overlong. Effi had shortened the former, and the latter now disappeared into the shiny boots. He placed the peaked cap on his head, rammed his own suit jacket and trousers into the travel bag, and waited a few minutes, hoping to ensure that anyone who had seen him arrive would not be around to watch him depart.

He flushed and walked out, just as another man entered the toilet. The latter saw him and instantly looked away. Russell admired himself in the mirror, and couldn't help noticing that the new arrival was suffering a little stage fright at the adjoining urinal. 'Heil Hitler,' he murmured spontaneously, inducing a strangled echo from the other man.

If the Nazis didn't get him, his sense of humour would.

He walked back out onto the concourse, and down the steps to the U-Bahn platform. His fellow-passengers seemed disinclined to jostle him, and some even managed ingratiating smiles. Two trains and twenty-five minutes later he was climbing out onto Bismarckstrasse. It was fully dark now, and the overcast sky blotted out moon and stars. He had memorised the way to Knieriem's house before leaving, but checked it with a kiosk proprietor before heading off into the even darker side streets. What he most looked forward to in the world beyond Germany was a night full of bright lights and laughter.

It took him about ten minutes to find the street and the house. Rather to his surprise, a young woman in a Nachrichtenhelferinnen uniform answered his knock on the door.

'I wish to see Herr Knieriem,' Russell said, with the air of someone who expected compliance.

She flushed for no apparent reason. 'Oh, I'm just going out. Is my father expecting you?'

'No,' he said, walking past her and into the spacious hallway. 'Please tell him Sturmbannfuhrer Scheel wishes to see him.'

She disappeared, leaving Russell to congratulate himself for not trusting an old Social Democrat. Anyone with a daughter keen enough to join an army auxiliary unit was unlikely to be handing out military secrets.

Franz Knieriem emerged, kissed his daughter goodbye, and invited Russell through to a spacious, well-heated room at the back of the house. He had lost weight since Russell had last seen him, but he still didn't look like a fighter. Thinning hair, neatly parted down the centre, topped a head that seemed too large for its features - piggy eyes, a knob of a nose, and a small fleshy mouth. Your typical Aryan.

He offered Russell a moist grip, but looked somewhat wary. 'How can I help you, Sturmbannfuhrer?'

Russell lowered himself into a plush armchair. 'Please shut the door, Herr Knieriem. This is a security matter.'

'There's no else in the house.'

'Very well. I belong to the Sicherheitsdienst, Herr Knieriem. You know who we are and what we do?'

'You...'

'We protect the Reich from its less visible enemies - spies, Bolsheviks, dissidents of all kinds.'

'But what has that to do with me?'

'Please, Herr Knieriem, do not be concerned. I did not mean to imply that you were such an enemy. The reason for my visit is this - we have information that you are about to be approached by a foreign agent. This man is a German, but he works for the Reds. You yourself were a Social Democrat, I believe?'

'A great many years ago,' Knieriem protested.

'Of course. But the Reds no doubt believe that they can play on past sympathies, and on family loyalties of course - your brother was a communist, was he not?'

'He was, but I can assure you...'

'Of course. You would no more pass on secrets than I would. The point, however, is that this misapprehension on the part of the enemy has presented us with a golden opportunity to mislead him.'

'I don't understand.'

Russell's hopes rose. Knieriem was clearly not the brightest spark in the blackout. 'The information which the Reds are interested in concerns our long-range bomber force. Which you, of course, are in a position to tell them about. If you tell them we will soon have a long-range capability they will believe it. And if you tell them we will not, the same will apply.'

'So what should I tell them?'

'We think dishonesty would be the best policy. You understand?'

'You mean I should tell them that such bombers will soon be ready?' Russell breathed an inner sigh of satisfaction. 'Exactly. But you'll have to say more than that. The more details you can offer, the more convincing the lie will be.'

Knieriem thought about it. 'Well, there are plans,' he said. 'The Me264, for example, and there are several other prototypes. The Ju390 looks promising. But none of them will be ready before 1943 at the very earliest, and only in very small numbers even then. I suppose I could speed up the development times for our Red friend, and multiply the production orders.'

'That would be ideal. You could outline the real difficulties that we are having, but then assure him that they have all been overcome. The more details the better.'

'Well, the main difficulty is the lack of resources. The need for more fighters and shorter-range bombers is considered more urgent, so they have a higher priority.' Knieriem smiled almost wistfully.

Russell frowned. 'Perhaps too much detail would be counter-productive. Perhaps it would be better if you simply told the agent that our long-range bombers are almost ready. Give the Reds something to worry about, eh? They can use up all their resources moving their factories another thousand kilometres to the East.'

'When should I expect this man to approach me? He won't come here, will he?'

'Probably not. But once he has contacted you, you must report to me at Wilhelmstrasse 102.'

'And if he doesn't?'

'Then do nothing,' Russell said, levering himself out of the armchair. 'He may be watching to make sure you are not in contact with us. That's why I came here after dark,' he added, as the obvious question dawned in the other man's eyes.

Russell got to his feet, placed the peaked cap on his head, and did up the buttons on his outside coat. 'We are relying on you, Herr Knieriem,' he said by way of farewell. 'Do not fail us.'

Back on the street, he managed to walk twenty metres before virtually exploding with laughter. He was pummelling an adjacent wall with glee when a uniformed man loomed out of the darkness and shone a torch in his face.

'Oh, pardon me,' the man stuttered, extinguishing his torch and hurrying away in the darkness. There were few more disturbing sights than a hysterical Sturmbannfuhrer.

Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. The several centimetres of overnight snow showed no sign of succumbing to the primrose-coloured sun, and children too young for the Jungvolk were happily hurling balls of the stuff at each other. Their triumphant peals of laughter and joyous squeals of dismay drifted up from the street like echoes from another world.

Effi insisted on breakfast in bed, but the urge to get up soon proved irresistible. While she agonised over what they should take, he wrote an account of what Knieriem had inadvertently told him, and added those sheets to the ones from Sullivan's briefcase. It was still only hearsay, but it seemed more authoritative in black and white. That done, he went out and reconnoitred the route they would take that evening. The thought of getting lost in the dark and missing their appointment was too dreadful to contemplate.

Returning an hour and a half later, he found Effi content to leave almost everything behind. Neither of them could make up their mind about the SS uniform, but its bulk eventually told against it. They also decided to leave most of Effi's cash in its hiding place under the floorboards - having that much money on them would rouse suspicion in even the dimmest official. In the end they packed only the slim sheaf of papers, enough food for a few meals and a single change of clothing for each of them. It didn't seem much to be leaving Berlin with, particularly if one was a successful film actress, and Russell lamented Effi's probable loss of a lifetime's earnings.

'I'll get most of it back after the war,' she said. 'Zarah and I opened an account in her name about a year ago, and I've moved a lot of my savings into that.'

Russell shook his head. 'Please don't tell me you've been taking flying lessons, and that there's an aeroplane waiting somewhere nearby.'

'Unfortunately not.'

The afternoon dragged on, the sun finally disappearing behind the school on the next street. They sat by the window with the blackout screens pulled back, watching the city slowly darken as the minutes ticked by. As the time for leaving approached, a pale light on the roofs opposite reflected the rising of the moon. Would that help or hinder their escape, Russell wondered. There was no way of knowing.

They left at a quarter past six. Effi had seen no point in taking the keys to the apartment, but Russell thought it far from certain that the comrades would agree to help them. No promises had yet been made. All they had was a meeting. They might be back in a couple of hours.

The walk took them past block after block of run-down apartments, past the bakery that filled the air with its nostalgic odours, past still-humming electrical works and an abandoned-looking chocolate factory. By the time they reached Gesundbrunnen Station a three-quarter moon was hanging over the Plumpe and, as they crossed the bridge overlooking the locomotive roundhouse, the snow-covered roofs to the east stretched away in a jumble of luminescence.

The Kaiser Bar was huddled in deep shadow on the eastern side of Schwedter Strasse. The interior looked as if it hadn't been decorated since before the first war, and the old, leather-lined booths that stretched along one wall were as faded and worn as the only customers - two old men playing dominoes at a table on the other side of the room. Pride of place behind the sparse-looking bar belonged to a group photograph of Hertha's championship-winning team of 1931.

The middle-aged man behind the bar wished them welcome in a less than welcoming tone.

'We're here to see Rainer,' Russell told him.

After lifting an eyebrow in apparent surprise, the barman disappeared through a door at the back. He re-emerged only seconds later with finger beckoning.

Walking through, Russell and Effi found themselves in a large windowless room. There was a second door on the far side, and most of the available floor-space was occupied by upright wooden chairs in various states of decrepitude. A Party meeting room, Russell assumed. Like the Party, it had seen better days.

Two men were waiting for them. One was about Russell's age, a burly, balding man with worn hands and a leathery face that had spent most of its days outdoors. The other was probably in his early twenties, wiry and snub-nosed with a shock of dark hair. Given Strohm's job and known connections, it seemed fairly certain that both were Reichsbahn employees.

The older man invited them to sit. 'This is John Russell,' he said, as if others were present who needed to know. 'And this is Effi Koenen,' the slightest edge of distaste colouring his intonation. 'An excellent disguise,' he added.

'That was the intention,' she said coldly.

Russell gave her a warning glance.

'I believe you have something for us,' the man said to him.

'And you are?' Russell asked.

The man offered a thin smile. 'You know whom I represent. You don't need a name.'

Russell shrugged, removed the folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it over.

The man read it through twice, and reached the same conclusion as Effi. 'You could have made this up.'

'I could,' Russell agreed. 'But I didn't.'

'Why would this official reveal this information to you? Was it for money?'

Russell told the whole story - its American genesis, his visit to Knieriem in SS guise, the trick he had played on the ministry official.

'Very ingenious,' the other man responded, with the air of someone who considered ingenuity a bourgeois affectation.

Their fate was hanging in the balance. 'Not really,' Russell told him with a self-deprecating smile. 'Luckily for me, the man was a fool. But the information is genuine. If it were false, I would not be staking my future on it.'

The older man was clearly torn. His own future might also be resting on the validity of Russell's report.

'You have nothing to lose by helping us,' Russell argued. 'Even if I have made all of this up - which I haven't - you would gain nothing by sending us back into the arms of the Gestapo. On the contrary, you know and I know that sooner or later we would talk, and more comrades would be lost.'

'A dangerous argument,' the man said, reaching for his pocket. Russell half expected a gun to appear in his hand, but it was only a wodge of pipe tobacco.

'This is ridiculous,' Effi interjected. 'We are all enemies of the Nazis. We should be helping each other. Those papers will help the Soviet Union.' 'I saw you in Sturmfront,' the man said.

She gave him an incredulous look, then sighed. In that film her husband had been beaten to death by communists. 'I was just playing a role,' she said. 'I didn't write it.'

'Some roles should be refused.'

'I didn't know that then. I'm afraid it takes some people longer than others to see what is happening.'

He smiled. 'You were very convincing. You still are. And you are right,' he said, turning to Russell, 'your departure from Berlin is in everyone's interest.'

'What has been arranged?' Russell asked.

'You are travelling to Stettin tonight.'

Russell felt relieved, but didn't want to make it too obvious. 'And when we get there?' A ship, he guessed. Sweden, with any luck.

'You will be taken care of. I know nothing more.'

'What time do we go?'

The man looked at his watch. 'The train is scheduled to leave at ten, but the sooner you get on board the better. The comrade here' - he gestured towards the younger man - 'will take you across.'

They all stood up, and the older man shook hands with both of them. Out on the moonlit Schwedter Strasse a lorry was disappearing in the direction of the city centre, but otherwise the road was clear. The open gates to the Gesundbrunnen goods yard were almost opposite the Kaiser Bar and, as they followed the young man through them, the sounds of shunting in the sidings beyond were suddenly audible. Away to the south several planes were crossing the moonlit sky, heading west.

'What happens if there's an air raid?' Russell asked.

'That depends,' the young man said, but failed to elucidate.

They walked down the side of a seemingly endless goods shed, worked their way round its northern end and started out across the fan of sidings. The yard lights were on, but hardly bright enough to compete with the moonlight. After crossing the tracks ahead of several lines of open wagons, the young man led them into the gap between two trains of covered vans. 'You're in luck,' he told them. 'The last lot travelled in an empty ore wagon. They'd have been really cold by the time they reached Stettin.'

They were only three boxcars from the end when he stopped, grabbed hold of a rail with one hand, clambered up two steps, and pulled the sliding door open with the other. Jumping back down, he explained that the vans had brought paper from the Stettin mills, and were going back empty. 'The guard knows you're on board,' he told them, 'but the loco crew doesn't. When you get to Stettin, just stay where you are and wait for the guard.' He took the heavy bag from Russell's hand, swung it onto the floor of the boxcar, and unexpectedly offered Effi a helping hand. She took it, and gave him a smile of thanks once she was aboard. Russell followed her up and turned to say goodbye, but the young man had already left. There was nothing to see inside the van, so he pulled the door shut, and they helped each other blindly to the floor.

It had to be at least half-past seven. They had two and a half hours to wait.

'Who'd have guessed it would end like this,' Effi said after a minute or so.

'My grandmother once told me I'd come to a bad end,' Russell admitted. He hadn't remembered that in years - his father's mother had died when he was eight years old.

'What had you done?' Effi asked.

'I ate the cherries off the top of a trifle.'

Her laugh reverberated round the empty van, and he joined in.

'Let's talk about our childhoods,' she suggested eventually, and they did, chattering the time away with what seemed like reminiscences from two other people's lives. Russell was thinking that at least two hours had passed when the floor shook beneath them - a locomotive was being attached to the front of the train. Only seconds later air raid sirens began to wail not far away.

What should they do? Yards like this were a prime target, but the British rarely hit one of those. Would the train leave in the middle of an air raid? If so, they couldn't afford to get off. But then, why wasn't it moving?

For twenty minutes or more nothing happened, no bombs, no movement. Then suddenly there was an enormous bang, and the van rocked on its wheels, as if an army of men had given it a great push. Russell pulled the door open just in time to see another bomb explode, this one beyond the line of the goods sheds, and probably Schwedter Strasse as well. The orange flash lasted only a second, and a column of debris rose up, glittering in the moonlight. At that moment the train clanked into motion, jerking Russell backwards and almost out of the open doorway. He recovered his balance and tugged it shut as two other bombs exploded in quick succession away to his left.

The train quickly gathered speed, violently rolling its way through the switches, as if the driver's only concern was to get it out of Berlin. The bombing continued, but none fell as close again, and the sound of the explosions soon began to fade. They lay entwined on the dusty floor, their bodies prey to each jolt of the wheels, their minds still straining to cope with the fact of leaving Berlin.