Potsdam Station jr-4

by David Downing

  Those were different days, Effi thought. In 1943 neither had really expected to survive the war, and the feeling of nothing to lose had encouraged the taking of risks. Now that survival seemed almost in reach, the instinctual urge was to do nothing that might attract attention. She would forget about the firearms training, Effi decided, but she might still try to get hold of a gun. Men behaved badly in wars, particularly in their final days, when neither winners nor losers had much to gain by behaving well.

  She lay back on her camp bed, hoping to get some more sleep, just as the sound of exploding bombs penetrated the shelter. They were falling at least a mile away, Effi guessed – like most Berliners, she had grown quite proficient at estimating such things.

  The next stick was closer, but not close enough to shake dust from the ceiling. A quarter-mile at least. She looked up, wondering for the umpteenth time whether the floor above would hold if the building above collapsed. They had done their best to shore it up, but no one really knew. If it did come down, she hoped it came down on her head. The thought of being buried alive filled her with dread.

  More explosions, and this time little specks of dust floated down from above. Like everyone else, Effi braced herself for the sudden crack of thunder, but as the moments lengthened it became apparent that none were coming. There were muffled explosions in the distance, then more still further away.

  The all-clear sounded earlier than usual. Provided there was no British daytime raid, the streets should be safe until dark, and Effi knew she should use the opportunity to do some shopping. With the Russians on the Oder, who knew when the city’s ration supplies would suddenly dry up?

  It was still grey outside, and most of the eastern sky was full of smoke. The government district, she guessed. Serve them right. She didn’t suppose Hitler had been standing by a window when it blew in, but one could always hope.

  The queue at the local grocery was long, but there was still no sign of food running out. Effi used her and Ali’s ration cards to buy rice, lentils, dried peas, a small amount of fat and an even smaller piece of bacon. There was, unusually, no ersatz coffee to be had, but few seemed disposed to lament the fact. And in general, the mood seemed one of almost cheerful resignation. For months the favourite joke among Berliners had been ‘enjoy the war – peace will be dreadful’, but lately things had got so bad that even a Russian occupation might be some sort of improvement.

  It was almost three when Effi left the shop, and the sun was struggling to break through the clouds. She thought about walking to one of her favourite cafés on Savigny Platz or the Ku’damm, not for the barely drinkable coffee and barely edible cakes, but because taking a seat on the sidewalk and watching the world go by was a way of stepping back in time, to when such pleasures could be taken for granted. It was too risky, of course – the Gestapo greifer hovered around those cafés like vultures. They, above all people, understood the fugitive’s desperate desire to relive a few moments of his or her former life.

  She walked home. Discovering to her surprise that gas was available, she put water on for a pot of tea. The flame was pathetically low, but half an hour later, just as Ali was letting herself in through the apartment door, steam began to rise.

  ‘How did it go?’ Ali asked as she took off her coat.

  She was looking good, Effi thought. Too thin, of course, and their diet was doing nothing for her skin complexion, but she would be a lovely young woman again when all this was over. A real catch for any man who could cope with an independent spirit, and she believed that Fritz could. ‘I don’t really know,’ she admitted in answer to the question. She gave Ali a run-through of the night’s events, ending with the Gestapo officer. ‘I don’t know whether he believed me or not,’ she concluded. ‘If he didn’t, then we may have visitors. But we’ve had them before,’ she added, seeing Ali anxiously purse her lips, ‘and we sent them packing. Remember the ice?’

  Ali laughed. About eighteen months earlier, the Gestapo had suspected ‘Frau von Freiwald’ of harbouring a Jewish U-boat. She and her ‘niece’ had been living in a ground floor apartment then, and watchers had been stationed front and rear. One evening Effi had poured boiling water across the path at the back, and the freezing temperature had done its work. A few hours later they were treated to the sound of a heavy fall and subsequent volley of curses. Soon thereafter the watchers were withdrawn, and a month or so later Effi was able to resume her provision of temporary sanctuary for those in desperate need.

  ‘And Erik will warn us if things have gone wrong,’ she added.

  ‘If he’s not the first one they arrest,’ Ali protested, but without too much conviction.

  Years earlier, Effi had listened to a conversation between John and his ex-wife’s brother Thomas about their times in the trenches. There were some men, they agreed, whom everyone knew would remain unscathed. The Swede, she realised, had that sort of aura.

  Of course, Russell had added at the time, the intuition was sometimes mistaken, and when one of the certain survivors was killed everyone else became twice as depressed.

  ‘So how was internment?’ Russell asked Joseph Kenyon that evening. Like all the American diplomats and journalists marooned in Berlin when the Japanese carrier fleet hit Pearl Harbor, Kenyon had endured five long months of ‘protective custody’ at Bad Nauheim’s Grand Hotel. Russell had been on the run by then, or he would shared the same fate.

  ‘It was probably a decent hotel before the war,’ Kenyon said. ‘But by the time we arrived the staff were all gone, and the heating and electricity had both packed up. Things got better, I suppose. After we kicked up a fuss, we probably ate better than the local Germans, but that wasn’t saying much.’

  ‘I can’t say I’m sorry to have missed that,’ Russell admitted. He reached for his drink and took in their surroundings. The bar of the National Hotel bar was large and almost deserted; there were a couple of Swedish journalists sharing a bottle of wine on the far side of the room, and an obvious NKVD snoop at a table close to the door. He kept checking his watch as if expecting relief.

  ‘And how did you get out of Germany?’ Kenyon asked.

  Russell gave the diplomat the expurgated version, which had him passed, like a parcel in the children’s game, from one group of selfless anti-Nazis to another, until Sweden loomed on the horizon.

  Kenyon wasn’t fooled for a second. ‘The communists got you out.’

  ‘I suppose most of them were Party members,’ Russell admitted ingenuously.

  ‘And once you got to Stockholm?’

  ‘I got passage on one of the neutral sailings the Swedes had arranged with the Germans. Got dropped off in Havana, took a flight to Miami, arrived just in time for my mother’s funeral, which was really sad – I hadn’t seen her since 1939. I spent the next six months trying to tell America what was happening to the Jews, but no one wanted to hear it. Would you believe the New York Times has only had two lead editorials on the Jewish question since the war started? Lots of short pieces on page 11 or page 19 – 19,000 Jews killed in Kharkov, how Treblinka operated, etc etc – but no one would spell it all out in capital letters. It became a minor running story.’

  Kenyon lit a cigarette. ‘Did you work out why they wouldn’t?’

  ‘Not really. Several of the editors were Jews, so you couldn’t put it all down to anti-Semitism. I think some of them convinced themselves that a war for the Jews would be harder to sell than a war against tyranny. Some journalists told me the stories were exaggerated, but their only reason for thinking so was that most of the atrocity stories from the First War had turned out to be fakes.’ Russell grimaced. ‘When it came down to it, they couldn’t bring themselves to believe that the Nazis were murdering every Jew they could get their hands on. Apart from being inconvenient, it was just too much to take in.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘Anyway, I tried. You can only go on flogging an unwilling horse for so long. After that, well, I was feeling a long way away from the people I loved.’

  �
��They’re still in Berlin?’

  ‘As far as I know. My wife – she’s my girlfriend really, but people take a wife much more seriously – anyway, she was on the run with me, but things went wrong, and she had to stay behind. If the Gestapo caught her, they never let on, and I’m praying that she’s been in hiding all this time. My son was only fourteen when I left, and he’s more German than English. There was no way I would have put him at risk, even if his mother – my first wife – would have let me.’

  ‘And you haven’t heard from either of them since ’41?’

  ‘No. The Swedes got their Berlin embassy to let Paul know I was safe. He thanked them for letting him know, but he had no message for me. He must have been furious with me, and I can’t say as I blame him. When I got to London at the end of ’42 I tried to persuade the BBC to broadcast a message that only Effi would understand, but the bastards refused.’

  ‘Three years is a long time,’ Kenyon mused.

  ‘I’d noticed,’ Russell said wryly.

  ‘So you left the States,’ Kenyon prompted.

  ‘I was lucky. The San Francisco Chronicle’s London correspondent wanted to come home – family reasons of some sort – and my old editor asked if I was interested. I jumped at it.’ He smiled at Kenyon. ‘I’m afraid having an American passport hasn’t made me feel any less English.’

  ‘It’ll come.’

  ‘I doubt it. There’s a lot I love about America, and a lot I loathe about England and Germany, but Europe still feels like home.’

  ‘Try Moscow for a few years. But how was London?’

  ‘Okay. In any other circumstances I’d have probably loved it, but all I did was sit around and wait. I began to think that the Second Front was never going to happen. When it did, I managed to convince my editor that a year in the trenches qualified me as a war correspondent, and I’ve been trailing after the troops since Normandy. Until now, that is.’

  ‘They’re making a huge mistake,’ Kenyon said.

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Well, Ike, to start with. But the president as well, for not overruling him.’

  ‘Word is, Roosevelt’s not long for this world.’

  ‘I know, but there must be someone at the wheel. Ike’s telling everyone that his business is winning the war as quickly and cheaply as he can, and that winning the peace is down to the politicians. If he doesn’t get the connection, then someone should be getting it for him.’

  ‘Career soldiers rarely do. But if the occupation zones are already decided, what’s the point?

  ‘The point,’ Kenyon insisted, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette, ‘is to show some resolve, give the Russians something to think about. If the Red Army takes Berlin, the Soviets will come away with the impression that they’ve won the war on their own.’

  ‘They damn near have.’

  ‘With a hell of a lot of help. Who built the trucks their soldiers are riding on? Who supplied the cans they’re eating from? Who just surrounded three hundred thousand of the bastards in the Ruhr Pocket?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘Take it from me, the Russians will go from friend to foe in the time to takes to say “Hitler’s dead”. They’ve already got their hands on half of Europe, and they’ll be eyeing the rest. They might not be as nasty as the Nazis, but they’ll be a damn sight harder to shift.’

  He was probably right, Russell thought. But if the Americans had been through what the Russians had, they’d also be looking for payback.

  ‘What are you going to do when they say no?’ Kenyon asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ Russell admitted.

  He was still pondering that question as he walked back up Okhotnyy Ryad to Sverdlov Square and the Metropol. He seemed stuck in what bomber pilots called a holding pattern; he couldn’t ‘land’ until he knew what had happened to Effi and Paul. One or both could be dead, which would change everything. But even if both were alive… Paul was eighteen now, and more than ready to strike out on his own. Effi might have fallen in love with someone else. Three years, as Kenyon had said, was an awfully long time.

  And if she still loved him, well, where would they live?

  In the ruins of Berlin? She might be longing to leave the city behind. She might feel more tied to the place than ever.

  He had no idea where he wanted to be. Living in hotel rooms and lodgings for three years had left him with an abiding sense of root-lessness. This war had set millions in motion, and some would have trouble stopping.

  ‘I can’t see what I’m doing,’ Effi said, putting the half-sewn dress to one side. Outside the light was fading, and there’d been no electricity since that morning’s bombing.

  ‘Have my seat,’ Ali suggested. ‘The light’s better.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. It’s not as if there’s any hurry. I don’t think the Skoumal sisters will be going out gallivanting any time soon.’ When Effi and Ali had set up the business in late 1942, Frau Skoumal had been one of their first clients, and fashioning dresses for her and her daughters had yielded them a steady supply of food and ration stamps. They had lived above the shop in Halensee in those days, because residents of commercial premises were not obliged to register with the local authorities.

  Effi stood up and stretched her arms above her head. ‘I can’t believe how…’

  She was interrupted by an urgent series of knocks on their front door. The two women looked at each other, and saw their fears mirrored.

  ‘Did you hear a car?’ Effi whispered, as she headed for the door.

  ‘No, but…’

  There were more knocks.

  ‘Who is it?’ Effi asked, remembering to put a few years on her voice.

  ‘It’s Erik,’ a voice almost hissed.

  She let him in, wondering what new disaster had occurred. It was only the second time he had been to the apartment, and he looked shabbier than usual – his coat was missing a button, his trousers badly frayed at the ankles. He was also unshaven, she realised – the first time she had seen him so.

  ‘I’m sorry for coming here,’ he said at once, ‘but there was no time to contact you in the usual way.’

  ‘Were those men caught?’ Effi asked.

  ‘No. At least, not as far as I know. We still haven’t heard from Lübeck, and no news is usually good news. But that’s not why I’m here.’

  ‘One of them knew me,’ Effi told him. ‘And he stayed here.’

  Aslund looked mortified. ‘Oh, that’s bad. I’m sorry. It’s just.. there’s no excuse, but the arrangements… there was no time. I am sorry,’ he repeated.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Effi offered. Her anger was already turning to guilt. Aslund had saved so many innocent lives.

  ‘No, I can’t stay. The reason I came – I have someone in need of a refuge.’

  ‘Of course,’ Effi said instinctively, and tried to ignore the sense of resentment that suddenly welled up inside her. They had not had a ‘guest’ for several months, and she had grown accustomed to living without that particular hostage to Gestapo fortune.

  ‘I know,’ Aslund said, as if he could feel her reluctance. ‘But…’

  ‘For how long?’ Effi asked.

  ‘Until it’s over,’ the Swede admitted. ‘This one’s different,’ he continued, seeing the look on Effi’s face. ‘She’s only eight years old. Her mother was killed by a bomb about a month ago, and the woman who’s looking after her – who sheltered them both for more than two years – she’s seriously ill. She can’t look after the girl anymore.’

  ‘She’s Jewish?’ Ali asked.

  ‘Yes. The name on her new papers is Rosa. Rosa Borinski. She’s a lovely little girl.’

  Effi hesitated. She wanted to say no, but she didn’t know why. One risk too many, perhaps.

  ‘There’s no one else,’ Aslund said softly.

  ‘Of course we’ll take her,’ Effi said, looking at Ali. How could they refuse?

  Ali looked concerned. ‘There’s something
I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said. ‘I told Fritz that I’d move in with him until it’s all over. There’ll be more room, but I won’t be around much to help.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Effi told her. She felt upset that Ali was going, but hardly surprised. ‘I can manage the girl on my own,’ she told Aslund.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ Aslund said, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Someone will bring her here tomorrow. After the day raid, if there is one.’

  ‘They haven’t missed a day for weeks.’

  ‘True. But it can’t last much longer. Once the Russians are in the city, the Western allies will have to stop their bombing.’

  ‘And how long before the Russians are here?’ Effi asked him.

  Aslund shrugged. ‘A few weeks. No more than that. And maybe less.’

  Russell was woken by the early morning sunlight, and found it impossible to go back to sleep. With two hours to wait until the restaurant opened, he enjoyed a long soak in the oversize bath and then sat by the window with his Russian dictionary, checking through words he might need to use. When the Cyrillic letters began to blur he put the book down, and stared out at the square. A group of four women cleaners were gathered beside the statue of Marx, leaning on their brooms like a coven of witches. Marx hadn’t noticed them, of course – he was staring straight ahead, absorbed in saving humanity.

  He ate breakfast alone surrounded by yawning waiters, and then went for a walk, cutting round the back of the Lenin Museum and into Red Square. On the far side, a couple of people were crossing in front of St Basil’s, but otherwise the vast expanse was free of movement. There were no guards outside Lenin’s tomb, a sure sign that the mummified corpse had not yet returned from its wartime vacation in distant Kuybyshev.

  Russell ambled across the cobbles, wondering what to do. Would the Soviets actually communicate a refusal, or just leave him dangling for days? Probably the latter, he thought. He needed to push for an answer – it wouldn’t hurt and it might even help. The Soviet Union was one of those strange places – like Oxford or the Church – where money didn’t talk very loudly, and where making yourself heard called for a certain directness. Like shouting, or banging one’s fist on a table.