Potsdam Station jr-4

by David Downing

  They had reached second place in the queue when all the lights went out. There were gasps and shrieks from the waiting refugees, which a subsequent announcement through the loudspeakers only partly allayed. When the sirens began, somewhat belatedly, to wail out their warning, several people burst into hysterical laughter.

  Red Cross workers bearing flashlights soon brought some order to the proceedings, leading everyone down to the shelter under the station. The lighting was dim, the smell dreadful, but the ceiling seemed, to Ef- fi’s practised eye, reassuringly substantial. She and Rosa laid claim to an empty corner and watched their fellow refugees get used to city life. One family had lost a suitcase, and the father was soon telling anyone who’d listen that they’d been right about Berliners – they really were all thieves.

  Yes, and all East Prussians have the brains of sheep, Effi thought to herself. It had been a long day.

  The settling-in process was just about complete when the all-clear sounded, and this time the queue was almost halfway across the concourse by the time they reached it. A helpful Red Cross worker pointed them in the direction of a canteen, and while they were eating their bowls of dubious stew a couple of well-mannered Hitlerjugend came over to ask if they needed help.

  Effi seized the opportunity. ‘My handbag’s been stolen,’ she said, clearly close to tears. ‘I don’t care about the handbag, but my papers were in it.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ the elder of the two youths told her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. ‘You just need to report the loss. Once you’ve finished your dinner I can show you where.’

  He was as good as his word, escorting them both to the relevant station office. A form was provided, which Effi filled out and signed with her new name – Dagmar Fahrian. The official presented her with a carbon copy, which he said she would need for obtaining replacements. The people at the NSV desk would explain it all.

  But not today. The sirens began wailing again, and everyone hurried back underground. By the time the all-clear sounded two hours later, the NSV desk had closed and all public transport had ceased for the night. There was nothing for it but to sleep in the shelter.

  Russell reckoned it was around ten in the morning when they next came for him, a surprisingly civilised hour by NKVD standards. And their route to the interrogation room seemed more direct, which also might bode well.

  He reminded himself that hope was dangerous.

  This time there were two of them, Colonel Ramanichev in his usual place, another uniformed officer sitting slightly to one side. He was probably in his early forties, stockier than his companion, with swept-back black hair, sallow skin and a Stalin moustache. He looked Georgian or Armenian, and was wearing a variant of the NKVD uniform which Russell didn’t recognise.

  Russell sat down. There was a bad smell in the room, and he had no difficulty in identifying the source. It was himself.

  Ramanichev, who had obviously noticed it too, got up to open a window. As he sat back down a distant peal of laughter was audible. The world was still out there.

  ‘Has the war ended yet?’ Russell asked pleasantly.

  Ramanichev gave him a look. ‘No,’ he said after a moment, ‘it has not.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Ramanichev glanced briefly at his fellow-officer, as if seeking permission to proceed. ‘When I questioned you three days ago,’ he began, ‘you stated with absolute certainty that the American Army had abandoned its plans to advance on Berlin.’

  ‘Correct,’ Russell agreed, with a lot more confidence than he felt. What had bloody Eisenhower done now?

  ‘The American 9th Army reached the Elbe River the day before yesterday, and yesterday they crossed it. At Schönebeck, near Magdeburg. You know where that is?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘They are only a hundred kilometres from Berlin.’

  ‘Are they still advancing?’

  ‘No,’ Ramanichev conceded reluctantly, ‘not as yet.’

  Russell shrugged. ‘You know how it works. Front-line generals like to put pressure on their bosses. Whoever’s in charge of the 9th Army – his orders were probably to stop at the river, but he’ll have found some good reason to send a few men across, and if there’s any resistance they’ll have to be reinforced. If there isn’t, he’ll have shown the top brass that the road to Berlin is open. He’ll want to push on, but they won’t let him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because that’s what was decided. Those airborne divisions you claimed were making preparations – are they still?’

  ‘That is unclear.’

  ‘So they’re not. I’m telling you the truth. Eisenhower is going to let the Red Army take Berlin. And the casualties that go with it. ’

  ‘You’d stake your life on that.’

  ‘I think I probably have.’

  Ramanichev smiled his agreement. ‘My colleague has some questions for you.’

  ‘What do you know about the German programme to create an atomic explosive?’ the other man asked without preamble. He had a slightly rasping voice, and several gold teeth which glinted when he opened his mouth.

  The sudden change of subject caught Russell out. ‘Only that it didn’t amount to much,’ he said without thinking. ‘Nothing’ would have been a much better answer.

  ‘Explain,’ the man said peremptorily.

  ‘I have no inside knowledge of the subject…’

  ‘That is hard to believe. This must be a matter of great importance to American intelligence.’

  Russell sighed. ‘As I’ve told the comrade here, I no longer have any connection to American intelligence. As a journalist, I did hear certain stories.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Russel paused, wondering what to say. He had tried to keep abreast of atomic developments over the last few years – had even tried to understand the scientific and engineering problems involved – but there seemed no point in admitting as much in a Lyubyanka interrogation room. ‘I know one of the journalists who covered the Strasbourg story last December,’ he said. ‘When the French stumbled across that laboratory. He wasn’t given any access to the scientific details, but it was no secret that the American scientists who went over the place were all profoundly relieved. Whatever it was they found, it convinced them that the Germans were a million miles away from building an atomic bomb. But that’s all I know.’

  ‘You said stories, in the plural.’

  ‘I was exaggerating. I don’t know anything else about the German programme. Any fool could tell you that the Americans will be trying for an atomic bomb, but only the scientists will know how far they’ve got. And maybe the president, if they’ve bothered to tell him.’

  Ramanichev smiled at that, but his companion just seemed disappointed. Five minutes later Russell was back in his cell, wondering what had just transpired.

  Effi and Rosa were first in line when the Welfare Agency staff arrived at their Silesian Station desk that morning. Rosa had been working on a sketch of the concourse for about half an hour, and the two welfare workers spent so long admiring it that Effi’s patience was sorely tested. Wherever they were going, they needed to get there before the morning raid.

  Once fully engaged, however, their young woman helper proved both kind and efficient. She took down every false detail she was given, and asked where Effi wanted to go.

  ‘We plan to stay here in Berlin,’ Effi said, realising as she did so that she’d never considered doing anything else.

  ‘Are you sure?’ the woman asked. ‘The bombing is very bad, and most refugees choose not to stay here. They go further west, to a small town, or into the countryside.’

  Effi wavered, but only for a second. It would be safer for Rosa, and probably for herself, but no. She couldn’t leave without letting Zarah know she was all right, or God only knew what risks her sister would take to find her. Even leaving the house was a risk these days. And then there was Ali, who would also be worried. And she knew Berlin. Anywhere else she would feel lik
e a fish out of water. ‘I must stay here,’ she replied. ‘We have relatives here, distant cousins of my late husband’s. I’m afraid I don’t have their address any longer – it was in my bag. But they live in Friedrichshain. Their name is Schmidt.’

  ‘There are a lot of Schmidts in Friedrichshain…’

  ‘I know, it’s a common name. But if you could find us a room in that area, then maybe I can find them. We visited them before the war, and I think I would recognise their street if I saw it.’

  ‘That may not be as easy as you think,’ the woman told her. ‘The bombing has been quite fierce, you know.’ She opened a large ledger, and sought out the relevant page. ‘Of course you may be lucky,’ she added, as she ran her finger down a margin. ‘And Friedrichshain is one of our best areas for empty properties.’

  Which is why I chose it, Effi thought. A lot of Jews had lived in Friedrichshain.

  ‘We have a room on Olivaer Strasse,’ the woman said. ‘It belonged to an old woman who died. There may be relations with a claim to it, but for the moment… well, it is a long way out, but in present circumstances that’s almost a bonus – you’ll have less chance of being bombed. She took a map from a drawer and spread it in front of Effi. ‘Olivaer Strasse is somewhere in here,’ she said, circling the area between Friedrichshain Park and the stockyards.

  Rosa found it almost immediately.

  ‘That looks perfect,’ Effi said.

  The woman added the address to the papers she’d already made out, checked through each one, and stamped them both. ‘You must take these to the local NSV office, and they will issue a residence permit,’ she said as she handed them over. ‘And you must keep drawing,’ she told Rosa.

  As they walked away Effi breathed a huge sigh of relief. With any luck at all, they would sit out the last few days in the suburbs.

  But first they had to reach this haven, and that, as soon became obvious, was easier imagined than done. There was no U-Bahn out to Friedrichshain, so their trip would be on the surface, and an air raid was almost guaranteed for later that morning. Travelling by tram would require at least one change, and with the service in its current state of repair might take most of the day. It would be safer to walk the four or five kilometres, but it wasn’t a part of Berlin that Effi knew at all well. She nipped back to the NSV desk, and tried to memorise the names of the streets they needed to take.

  Rosa had stayed with their luggage in the middle of the concourse, and was now talking to their Hitlerjugend friends from the previous night, who had doubtless noticed her standing alone, and sallied forth to offer their protection. By the time Effi reached the threesome, Rosa had explained their circumstances, and the taller of the two had offered to escort them to their new home. She felt like refusing, but knew she was being foolish. The young man seemed nice enough, and he was no more to blame for the uniform than Paul had been. There had been a time, she remembered, when Paul had loved his shirt and shorts and ceremonial dagger. ‘That would be very kind of you,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’re allowed to leave the station?’

  He returned five minutes later with the necessary permission, and soon they were out in the open air. A blanket of grey cloud hung low above the city, threatening rain. They started walking up Frucht Strasse towards Küstriner Platz, the young man carrying Effi’s suitcase, she carrying Rosa’s. The buildings of the Eastern Goods Station were missing most of their roofs and some of their walls, but trains were still being loaded by squads of foreign prisoners. Küstriner Platz had suffered serious damage, with several buildings reduced to rubble, the square itself combed with craters.

  On the far side, Frucht Strasse continued north towards Frankfurter Allee. As they walked the young man told them his name was Franz, and that his father had died at Stalingrad. They wouldn’t let him fight just yet, but when the Russians reached Berlin he planned to have his revenge. When Effi asked after his mother the boy shook his head. ‘She has a boyfriend now,’ he told them. ‘She doesn’t need me anymore.’

  Approaching the elementary school on the corner of Frankfurter Allee they saw people lined up on the pavement, and a few moments later the roar of approaching vehicles provided a reason why. It was a military column heading out of the city, presumably bound for the not-so-distant Oder. It was mostly composed of trucks, all of which gave the impression of having been to Moscow and back. Two, Effi noticed, had French registration plates, so perhaps they’d gone with Napoleon.

  There were also several horse-drawn guns and three well-worn tanks. Black-uniformed officers stood ramrod straight in each turret hatch, reminding Effi of Roman chariot riders. The tanks looked almost as ancient, but had probably come from the Spandau repair shops.

  Turning her head to follow the procession, Effi suddenly caught sight of two men in leather coats. One chose that moment to glance in her direction, but seemed sufficiently reassured by her Hitlerjugend escort to resume his perusal of the passing column.

  The noise was quite deafening, and the first sign of trouble was the sudden disappearance – like a Jack-in-a-box in reverse, she later remembered thinking – of one of the tank commanders. The hatch slammed shut and the tank accelerated, its treads whipping up a storm of brick dust. She was still wondering why when the first bomb exploded on the far side of the school, throwing earth and brick across Frankfurter Allee and up into the sky, and she was still looking round for Rosa when the second lanced down through the school roof and blew her off her feet.

  If she passed out, it was only for a split second – the rest of the stick was exploding behind her, the school roof still crashing back to earth. There was pain and blood above her left ear, but otherwise she seemed uninjured. Raising her head, she could see people struggling to their feet.

  But not Rosa. The girl was lying flat on her back a few metres away. Her eyes seemed to be closed.

  ‘Please no,’ Effi heard herself beg as she half crawled, half scrambled her way across the glass-strewn pavement. The girl’s suitcase had been blown open, her meagre possessions scattered across the stone.

  She could see no blood. ‘Rosa! Rosa!’ she entreated

  The eyes opened, took Effi in. The mouth tried hard to smile. ‘Am I all right?’ she asked.

  ‘I think you are,’ Effi told her, putting an arm around the girl’s neck and gently pulling her into a sitting position. Over Rosa’s shoulder she saw that Franz was collecting the clothes, and carefully folding each item before putting it into the suitcase. And that now he was reaching for the tell-tale blouse.

  ‘Franz,’ she said, but he had already seen the faded star. Ignoring Effi, he simply stared at it for several seconds, and then went on with his folding.

  But by then it was too late. One of the leather coats had seen it – or perhaps only Franz’s reaction. He pushed the boy aside, knelt down beside the suitcase, and unfolded the blouse once more. ‘Ha!’ he said, and held it up for his partner to see.

  The partner’s eyes swivelled to take in Effi and Rosa. ‘Jews!’ he said, with the triumphant surprise of someone who had just happened upon a pair of living dinosaurs. ‘You’re under arrest,’ he added superfluously.

  Effi looked at the two of them. There was no kindness in their faces, and not much in the way of intelligence: nothing, in short, to which she might appeal as one human being to another. She helped Rosa to her feet, swaying slightly as she did so. Her head wound was beginning to throb.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ Rosa said numbly.

  ‘I won’t.’

  Franz had closed the girl’s suitcase. He gave it to her, and then looked up at Effi, offering a silent apology with his eyes.

  ‘Thank you for your help,’ she told him, picking up her own suitcase.

  ‘This way,’ one of her captors insisted, and gave her a gratuitous shove. She stumbled down onto her knees, and her head started whirling around. A hand grabbed her upper arm, and she could hear Rosa screaming: ‘Leave her alone! Leave her alone!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she ma
naged to say. ‘Help me up,’ she told the man, and much to her surprise, he did. A crowd of women was watching them, and Effi found herself wondering how many of them had seen her in the movies.

  They were ushered across the wide street, and up the opposite sidewalk, the two leather coats striding along behind them. They seemed in ridiculously high spirits, and Effi could almost feel them preening themselves when a ready-made audience of women erupted from the Memeler U-Bahn station. Effi had not heard the all-clear, but the air raid was obviously over. Come to think of it, she hadn’t heard a warning either. Even the sirens were admitting defeat.

  The nearest police station was a hundred metres further up the road. The front desk was untended, but voices could be heard below – the local Orpo officers were either still waiting for the all-clear or wholly engrossed in a game of cards. One Gestapo man headed for the stairs while the other stood watch over their prize. Lowering herself onto a bench, Effi still felt a little woozy, but after a minute or so something seemed to shift. Her wound continued to throb, but she no longer felt like passing out.

  The other Gestapo man reappeared with a suitably chastened sergeant, and soon the former was describing their capture on the telephone. His voice grew less jaunty as the call progressed, and Effi deduced that their future was no longer in his hands. He confirmed as much when he came out. ‘Dobberke’s people will collect them later,’ he told his partner. Catching Effi’s eye, he hesitated for a moment, as if there was something he wanted to say, then continued out through the doorway. His partner followed without so much as a glance in their direction.

  ‘Are they going to kill us?’ Rosa asked in a whisper.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ Effi said, although she really had no idea. ‘The war’s almost over,’ she added, as if that was bound to make a difference. The girl looked less frightened than she should, and Effi had the strange feeling that their arrest had almost come as a relief.

  ‘I’m sorry about my blouse,’ Rosa said after a few moments. ‘I should have let you burn it.’

  ‘No,’ Effi said. ‘I’m glad you kept it. This isn’t your fault. It’s just bad luck. But don’t worry, I think we’ll be all right.’