Potsdam Station jr-4

by David Downing

  He was saved by an old man in a milkman’s uniform, who beat him to it, climbing the steps and hammering on the front door with all the insistence of someone intent on settling a long outstanding bill.

  There was no answer. The milkman placed a piece of paper against t he door, licked his pencil, and scribbled what looked like a furious message.

  Russell started back towards Dahlem. There were more people on the streets now, and most seemed to be smiling. He assumed the extra rations were responsible, but soon learned otherwise. A bald old man with a Hindenburg moustache – he had more hair under his nose than Russell had seen on many heads – insisted on shaking his hand. ‘We made it through,’ he said exultantly.

  ‘Through what?’ Russell asked.

  ‘You haven’t heard? That was the last air raid this morning. It was on the radio.’

  The BBC, Russell assumed. ‘That is wonderful,’ he agreed, and allowed his hand to be shaken again. Walking on, he could think of only one reason why the Allies would stop their bombing – the Soviets was poised to enter the city.

  As if in response to that thought, a rippling wave of explosions erupted away to the east.

  There were no planes in the smoke-smeared sky. It could only be Soviet artillery. They were close enough to bombard the city centre.

  Things would get worse, he realised. The gaps between air raids allowed time to shop, to collect water, to enjoy a few precious hours of natural light. But the Soviet guns would keep pumping shells around the clock. There would be no respite, no time of safety on the surface. From this point on the residents of Hitler’s rapidly shrinking realm would be spending all their time underground.

  There were no shells landing in Dahlem – yet. Reaching Thomas’s gate, he checked the street was empty before hurrying down the path. If anyone was watching from a window, he could only hope that any sense of social responsibility had worn thin. If seeing their city go up in flames didn’t stop people reporting their neighbours, then what would?

  Varennikov was awake, standing in the kitchen scratching his bare chest and staring hopelessly at the kettle. There wasn’t enough gas to warm a flea.

  ‘Someone knocked on the door,’ he told Russell.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Oh, fifteen minutes ago.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘You didn’t see who it was?’

  ‘No. I was afraid they might see me if I moved the curtain.’

  ‘You were right. Did they only knock once?’

  ‘No twice. After a half-minute they knocked again.’

  ‘They?’

  Varennikov shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see.’

  It might be nothing, Russell thought. But what innocent reason could anyone have for knocking on Thomas’s door? An old friend looking them up? Perhaps. It would be a coincidence, someone appearing so soon after their own arrival. A neighbour would be more likely, and a neighbour would know there was no one supposed to be here. Unless, of course, their arrival – or his own exit that morning – had been noticed.

  If a neighbour had seen them, he or she might have come over to check them out, might now be phoning the police to report the presence of burglars. Would the police care? Surely they were too busy saving their own skins to worry about crime?

  He walked out into the hall and tried the telephone. It was still working.

  If a policeman turned up he supposed he could shoot him. And he supposed that he would, if that seemed the only way to save himself and Varennikov. But he would much rather not, particularly if the policeman was some poor old sod from the Orpo.

  It was time to move on, he decided. If they could find sanctuary with the comrades in the Potsdam goods yard, then Nikoladze would be happy, and he would be within walking distance of the bolthole Effi had bought in Wedding almost four years ago. They had stayed there for a week while arranging their escape from Berlin, and she might, conceivably, still be living there. He had nowhere else to look. ‘We have to leave,’ he told Varennikov.

  ‘Why?’ the Russian asked, alarm in his eyes.

  ‘I think we may have been seen…’

  ‘You shouldn’t have gone out.’

  ‘Maybe, but I did. And if I was seen then someone may report it. The plan was to hide out in the railway yards – remember?’

  ‘But what if we’re stopped?’ Varennikov wanted to know. ‘They’ll take the papers. They’ll destroy them. The Party needs this information.’

  ‘I understand that,’ Russell said reassuringly. Rather more seriously, possession of the damn papers would be grounds for summary execution. ‘We can hide them in the house somewhere’ he improvised. ‘Once the Red Army’s in control of the city, we can come back and collect them. Okay?’

  ‘What if the house is shelled or bombed?’

  ‘All right. We’ll bury them in the garden. After dark. We’ll just have to hope no one turns up this afternoon.’

  Varennikov seemed satisfied. ‘I do have most of the important stuff in my head. And I can memorise more this afternoon. We will go tonight? How far is it?’

  ‘About ten kilometres, maybe a bit less. And I’ll have to think about when. Early tomorrow morning might be the better bet, because lots of foreign workers will be on their way to work. And if we reach the yards around first light, we’ll have a better chance of finding our contact.’

  All of which sounded like sense, Russell told himself later. As long as you ignored the fact that railway yards would be high on any list of artillery targets. Perhaps the Russians would become bored with targeting their fire, and simply lob their shells into the city, like the Western allies with their bombs. In which case he and Varennikov would have much the same chance of survival as anyone else.

  And if he reached the centre in one piece, his chances of finding Effi would be that much better.

  In the Pathology building on Schulstrasse the dull grey dawn had seemed an ill omen – the last few days had been ful of sunshine. Fear, hunger and sleep deprivation had eroded what little equanimity remained, and the air seemed full of angry mutterings and semi-hysterical whispers. Two women were praying in one corner, rather too loudly for their neighbours, one of whom begged them to shut up.

  The arrival of a single uniformed Gestapo officer silenced the entire room. Seemingly oblivious to the reaction he had provoked, the man approached the nearest group of prisoners. Effi watched him ask a question of one man, then search through the papers he was carrying. When he found what he was looking for, he handed the man a pencil, and pointed out where he should write.

  As the Gestapo officer worked his way through the first group, word of what he was doing spread through the basement. The papers had two parts: a statement attesting Dobberke’s refusal to liquidate the camp and kill his prisoners, and a list of the latter. Each prisoner was expected to endorse the statement by affixing a signature beside his or her own name.

  Reaction varied wildly. Some were almost overcome with relief, while others asserted that it must be a trick. Effi wasn’t sure what to think. When their turn came, she signed for herself and Rosa, and searched the Gestapo officer’s eyes for more than the usual deceit. All she saw was boredom, which seemed like reason for optimism. So did the absence of guards that morning, and the fact that the signatures would be worthless if all the signatories were killed.

  As the Gestapo officer moved on into the next room, the sirens sounded outside, and soon they could all hear bombs exploding in the distance. To the south, Effi thought. On what was left of the city centre.

  Around half an hour later Dobberke arrived. He had several guards with him, but none were brandishing guns. Commandeering a chair and table, he sat down with a large pile of papers before him, and called forth the nearest prisoner. The guards began forming all the others into a queue.

  The piled-up papers were release certificates, and Dobberke was intent on signing each one in the presence of its recipient. It was either the most convolut
ed and sadistic hoax in history, or they really were being released. Halfway down the queue Effi felt her body go weak with relief, her legs almost folding beneath her. She put an arm round Rosa’s neck and pulled her in. ‘We’re going to be all right,’ she whispered in the girl’s ear.

  The all-clear had sounded a few minutes earlier, and several prisoners were now hovering near the unguarded open door, clutching their release certificates and clearly wondering whether they could just walk out. The first one did so, hesitantly, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck. Others followed, walking faster, as if afraid of missing their chance. There was no gunfire, no sign that anything bad was waiting outside. On the contrary, Effi caught a glimpse of one man through the high windows. He was almost skipping his way down Schulstrasse.

  But many, even most, of the released prisoners seemed happy to stay where they were. And Johanna and Nina were among them. ‘We should just wait here for the Russians,’ Johanna suggested. ‘We won’t starve, and we’ll be safer down here than out in the street. And when the Russians arrive we’ll have enough strength in numbers to make them behave.’

  Effi conceded that she might be right, but had no intention of staying. She told them she wanted to find her sister, which was true in itself, but far from her only reason. Strength in numbers or not, she felt vulnerable out here in Wedding, far from those parts of the city in which she had always lived, and which she knew like the back of her hand. And now she knew that ‘Willy’ had not given away her address, they could go back home to Bismarck Strasse. Admittedly her new papers went with a flat in Weissensee, but that could hardly matter now.

  Their turn at the table arrived. Dobberke greeted her with a crooked smile, then signed the two certificates and wished Effi luck. She didn’t reciprocate.

  They collected their suitcases, and waited for Nina and Johanna to collect their certificates before saying their goodbyes. Effi thought of suggesting a post-war meeting, but the habitual caution of the last few years weighed more heavily. Rosa was less encumbered, and insisted on setting a time and place. The Zoo Cafeteria at 11 a.m. on August 1st was solemnly agreed.

  They turned for a final wave, Effi still a little nervous as they walked past the empty guardroom and out through the iron archway. Further down Schulstrasse other former detainees could be seen heading south towards the city centre under the slate grey sky.

  A light rain was falling, but had stopped by the time they reached Wedding Station. Effi’s suitcase had never been searched, and she still had the small, refugee-like wad of Reichsmarks that she had taken to Fürstenwalde. But she could not spend the money on transportation – only those with red passes were now permitted to travel on the U-Bahn, the old woman in the booking office told her apologetically. And the same was apparently true for trams, not that any seemed to be running. She and Rosa would have to walk.

  The shortest way to the Bismarck Strasse flat ran north of the Tiergarten through Moabit, a part of the city that Effi didn’t really know. She opted for simplicity; they would head straight for the city centre and then west along the southern rim of the park. It would add a couple of kilometres to the walk, but remove any chance of their getting lost.

  They started down Reinickendorfer Strasse, heading for the junction with Chaussee Strasse. There were more people on the street now, and a large queue spilling out of the old market hall. There was a vibrant buzz of conversation and no shortage of smiles on the women’s faces, which both surprised and heartened Effi. Had something good happened? Had Hitler finally thrown in the towel? She thought about crossing the street to ask, but decided not to bother – peace, when it came, would hardly need announcing.

  There were similar queues on Chaussee Strasse, and signs that the war was close by. Around twenty Hitlerjugend rode past them on bicycles, heading north with rocket-launchers strapped to their handlebars. The leading pair of boys were chatting gaily with each other, and might have been on a pre-war exercise, but most of their followers looked sick with fear. A little farther on, outside the barracks which book-ended the fortress-like Wedding police HQ, a company of Volkssturm was forming up. They all wore the relevant armbands, but their uniforms were anything but, a mish-mash of colours, styles and suitable sizes. A battalion of scarecrows, Effi thought, in more ways than one. The Russians would roll right over them.

  Rosa walked alongside her, showing no sign of tiredness, eyes devouring the sights. This was probably only her fourth or fifth trip outside in years, Effi thought. No wonder she was curious.

  Several women walking in the opposite direction gave them a passing glance, and one gave Rosa a big smile, but that was all the attention they received. Effi began to relax and accept the reality of their release. They really did look like ordinary Berliners; no one was going to point a finger at them and scream out ‘Jews!’ or ‘Traitors!’.

  But there was no point in pushing their luck. As they approached the junction with Invaliden Strasse, Effi saw that a barricade was being erected on the road ahead, and instinctively altered course to avoid it. She might have Dobberke’s release certificates in her pocket, but their validity was another matter. By this time the man might be under arrest for disobeying his murderous orders.

  Invaliden Strasse was almost empty, and so was Luisen Strasse. A number of fires were burning in the half demolished Charité Hospital complex, and several buildings on the other side of the street were smouldering. Organ music was coming from somewhere, suitably funereal against a background crackle of flames. They passed several corpses, some apparently untouched, others charred and riven.

  The carnage continued beyond Karl Strasse. A headless woman lay twisted in the street a few metres short of the S-Bahn bridge, but Effi could see no sign of the head. There was a bicycle though, which the woman must have been riding. It was a man’s machine, with a crossbar which Rosa might perch on, and a frame at the back for carrying their luggage. Effi stood it up and spun the wheels. It seemed fine.

  Turning in search of Rosa, she saw the girl staring down at the headless corpse, making drawing motions with her right hand. It was how she distanced herself, Effi realised. Drawing the world kept it at bay.

  ‘Rosa,’ she said, breaking the spell. ‘Come here.’

  The girl did as she was told, her eyes brightening at the sight of the bicycle.

  ‘We’re going to see if we can both get on this,’ Effi told her. Two suitcases were impossible, so she forced as much as she could into one, and tied it shut with a rope of torn clothing. She lifted herself onto the seat, helped the girl onto the crossbar, and set the wheels rolling. The first few metres seemed a trifle perilous, but soon they were gathering speed and approaching the Marschall Bridge.

  In 1941 they had all watched Udet’s funeral procession from the side of this bridge, Paul angry at his father for being English, Russell angry with his son for making him give the Nazi salute. Now the bridge itself was half gone, with only one lane open and men at work below, probably wiring the rest for destruction. She expected to be stopped, but the guards on the bridge just waved them through, one throwing Rosa a kiss.

  She pedalled on down towards Unter den Linden, turning right past the walled-up Adlon as a queue of men bearing laden stretchers filed in through the makeshift entrance. The Zoo Bunker flak towers loomed in the distance; the whole Tiergarten seemed, from Pariserplatz, like a military camp. She continued on down Hermann Göring Strasse, intent on following the road that formed the southern boundary of the park, and was just approaching the turning when she heard it – a whistling sound that rapidly gathered pitch and volume as it turned into a scream. A split-second later the earth in the adjacent park erupted, showering them both with fragments of soil and grass.

  As Effi applied the brakes another screech ended with flames leaping out of a nearby government building. These weren’t bombs, she realised. They were artillery shells. The Russians had brought their guns within range.

  Another one landed in the road behind her, drawing a squeak of a
larm from Rosa. Yet another exploded in the Tiergarten, spinning an already bomb-damaged tree up into the air. The shells were arriving every few seconds, and in a seemingly random pattern. They had to find shelter, and quickly.

  The large bunker under Potsdam Station seemed the nearest. Effi resumed pedalling, pushing her weary legs faster and faster, weaving her way through rubble as the world exploded around her. Potsdamer Platz hardly seemed to draw any nearer, and she found herself wondering if she would even feel a blast that blew her off the bicycle. Would someone find her headless body by the side of the road?

  As she reached the top of the square two shells smashed into buildings on the western side, sending out gouts of flame. A car was on fire in the middle, people screaming on the pavements away to her left, but she rode straight on, swerving between still-moving victims and heading straight for the steps that led down to the shelter. Reaching it, they both leapt off, and Effi frantically untied their suitcase. She was reluctant to leave the bicycle, but knew how crowded the shelter would be. Letting it drop, she grabbed the suitcase and hustled Rosa down the steps.

  She’d been in this bunker once before, when an early air raid had caught her between trams in the square above. There had been a lot of rooms, some the size of school assembly halls, with electric lighting, pine chairs and tables, and a reasonable number of clean, working toilets. People had sat around having picnics, and made jokes about the feebleness of the British bombing.

  That was then. Now furniture and lights were gone, the population had risen ten-fold, and no one was making jokes. Effi led Rosa deeper into the labyrinth, hoping for a space to sit down in. They passed a couple of blocked toilets, and several corners used for the same purpose. The smell was appalling.

  All the rooms were full of people. Most were women, but there were some old men and a fair number of small children. They sat or lay in mostly silent misery, their suitcases beside them, often attached to their wrists with string.