Potsdam Station jr-4

by David Downing

  The corridors and stairways were also heavily populated, except for those that connected the underground hospital to the outside world. These had to be kept clear for the stretcher-bearers. Two Hitlerjugend patrolled them, moving on anyone who tried to settle.

  Eventually they found a place, a niche off the cleared corridor where residence was apparently permitted. The previous tenants, their nearest neighbours told them, had just been taken away. The baby had died of hunger, and the mother had tried to stab herself with a shard of broken glass. She’d been taken to the hospital.

  Effi leant back against the wall, and enfolded Rosa in her arms. ‘At least we’re safe,’ she whispered.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Rosa said, then repeated the phrase, just to be sure.

  ‘Good,’ Effi murmured, and gave the girl a squeeze. They’d be here for a while, she told herself. She wouldn’t take Rosa back outside until the shelling had stopped, and why would it stop before the fighting was over? The Russians seemed unlikely to run out of ammunition, and she couldn’t see the Wehrmacht pushing them back out of range.

  When Paul awoke the daylight was almost gone, and a tall figure was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder.

  ‘Hello, Paul,’ the man said.

  He recognised the voice before the face. ‘Uncle Thomas!’ he exclaimed, throwing off the greatcoat and scrambling to his feet. They looked at each other, burst out laughing, and embraced.

  ‘Come, let’s sit down,’ Thomas said, indicating one of the cast-iron seats that lined the river promenade. ‘I’m much too tired to stand up.’ He took off his helmet, unbuttoned his coat, and lowered himself wearily onto the seat.

  He looked a lot older than Paul remembered. They had last met three years ago, when his uncle had tried to defend his father, and he had refused to listen. How old was Thomas now – fifty, fifty-one? His hair, cut back almost to nothing, had gone completely grey, and the lines on his face had multiplied and deepened. But the deep brown eyes still harboured mischief – Uncle Thomas had always found something to laugh at, even in times like these.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked Paul.

  ‘God knows,’ Paul replied. My unit was overrun on the Seelow Heights. The usual story – too little ammo and too much Ivan. I’ve been backpedalling ever since. Looking for my unit.’

  ‘Still in the 20th?’

  ‘What’s left of it.’

  ‘And who’s that?’ Thomas asked, twisting in his seat to look at the sleeping Werner.

  ‘His name’s Werner Redlich. I picked him up… no, he picked me up – a couple of days ago. The other boys in his unit all wanted to die for the Führer, but Werner wasn’t so sure.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘He looks younger.’

  In sleep he did, Paul thought. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked his uncle.

  ‘Defending Berlin,’ Thomas said wryly. ‘I was called up last autumn. They spent several months training us to fight a street battle, then sent us out here to defend a river.’ He shrugged. ‘The earthworks are good enough, but there’s nothing to put in them. No artillery, no tanks, just a bunch of old men with rifles they might have used in the First War. And a few disposable rocket launchers. It would be a farce if it wasn’t a tragedy.’ He smiled. ‘But at least I’m getting some exercise.’

  ‘How are the family?’

  ‘Hanna and Lotte are with Hanna’s parents in the country. They should be behind American lines by now.’

  ‘And Joachim?’

  ‘He was killed last summer, in Romania.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Yes. I should have found a way to let you know at the time. But, well, I wasn’t thinking too clearly for a while, and then there was the factory to deal with, and then the call-up…’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, both staring out across the darkening river.

  ‘What’s happening at the factory?’ Paul asked eventually. The last he’d heard, the Schade Printing Works was one of the few businesses in Berlin still employing Jews. Thomas had fought a long rearguard action against their deportation, insisting that their expertise was irreplaceable if he was to fulfil his government contracts.

  ‘It’s still running,’ Thomas said, ‘but most of the workers are Russian POWs. The Jews are gone.’ He grimaced. ‘People always told me it would end badly, and it did.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, the Gestapo just kept coming back. I don’t know whether you knew it at the time, but I was cultivating some pretty disgusting people before your father left. I hoped they would provide me – and the Jews – with some protection. It might even have worked, but the two with the most clout both died in the bombing – and on the same day! A third man was arrested for plotting against the Führer – I couldn’t believe it, the man seemed such a shit! And the rest… well, they just refused to stick their miserable necks out. One did give me a day’s warning, which helped a great deal. There were about forty Jews still working for me then, and I was able to warn them. Half took the chance to go underground, and didn’t turn up for work the next morning. The rest were carted off to God knows where. I assume they were killed.’

  Paul said nothing for a moment, remembering a lecture his father had once given him in London about Jews being people too. ‘I saw the remains of a camp,’ he said slowly. ‘In Poland, a place called Majdanek. The SS had flattened all the buildings, and a local woman told us they’d dug up thousands of bodies and burned them. If they did, they did a good job. There was nothing left.’

  Thomas sighed.

  ‘We killed them all, didn’t we?’ Paul said quietly. ‘All those we could get our hands on.’

  Thomas turned to face him. ‘Did you kill any?’

  ‘No, of course not…’

  ‘Then why the “we”?’

  ‘Because.. because I’m wearing a German uniform? I don’t really know.’

  ‘The victors will want to. Did the Germans do this, or just the Nazis? – that’s what they’ll be asking. And I don’t think they’ll find a simple answer.’

  ‘We voted for him. We knew he hated the Jews.’

  ‘Berlin never voted for him. But yes, a lot of Germans did, and we all knew he hated the Jews. But we didn’t know he meant to murder them all. I doubt even he knew it then.’

  Paul managed a wry smile. ‘It’s good to see you, Uncle Thomas.’

  ‘And you.’

  ‘I thought I saw Effi a couple of weeks ago. There was a woman standing on the opposite platform at Fürstenwalde Station – she had a young girl with her. And there was something about the woman. I only caught a glimpse of her before a train came between us, but I could have sworn it was Effi. Of course it wasn’t. I expect she’s living the high life in Hollywood.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Thomas said. ‘There was always a lot more to Effi than most people realised. Your father has been lucky with women,’ he mused, ‘first my sister, and then her. I expect you miss them both,’ he added.

  ‘I do,’ Paul said, and felt suddenly ashamed. Uncle Thomas had lost his son and his sister, and his nephew had refused to talk to him for three years. ‘The last time I saw you, I behaved like a child’ he admitted.

  ‘You were a child,’ Thomas said drily.

  Paul laughed. ‘I know, but…’

  ‘Have you forgiven your father yet? In your own mind, I mean?’

  ‘That’s a good question. I don’t know.’

  Thomas nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. ‘We may never see each other again – who knows? – so will you listen to what I wanted to tell you that day?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Your father abandoned you – there’s no denying it. But he had to. If he’d stayed, you’d have had a dead father instead of a missing one.’

  ‘That might have been easier,’ Paul said without thinking.

  Thomas took it in his stride. ‘Yes, for you it might have be
en. No one would deny that it was hard on you.’

  ‘On all of us,’ Paul said.

  ‘Yes, but particularly on you. And then you lost your mother. But Paul, it’s time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. You had a father and a mother who loved you – a father, I’ll warrant, who still does – and that’s more than a lot of people get in this world. Your father didn’t abandon you because he didn’t care about you; he didn’t leave you because of who he was or who you were. It was the war that divided you; it was politics, circumstance, all that stuff that makes us do the things we do. It had nothing to do with the heart or the soul.’

  In the back of Paul’s mind a child’s voice was still intoning ‘but he left me’. ‘I do still love him,’ he said out loud, suddenly aware that he was fighting back tears.

  ‘Of course you do,’ Thomas said simply. ‘Shit, I think I’m wanted,’ he added, looking over Paul’s shoulder. His Volkssturm company seemed to be gathering at the end of the bridge. ‘There’s always another hole to dig,’ he remarked in the old familiar tone as he got rather slowly to his feet. ‘It’s been wonderful seeing you,’ he told Paul.

  ‘And you,’ Paul said, throwing his arms around his uncle. ‘And you take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Thomas said, disentangling himself. There was a hint of moisture in his eyes too. ‘Don’t worry, I have no intention of throwing my life away in a lost cause, particularly this one. I’ve got Hanna and Lotte to think about. I shall surrender the first chance I get.’

  ‘Choose your moment. And your Russian, if you can.’

  Thomas gave him an approving look. ‘I shall remember that,’ he said. He smiled once more, then turned, one hand briefly raised in farewell, and walked away down the promenade.

  After almost twelve hours in the shelter Effi was beginning to wonder whether she’d exaggerated the dangers of the outside world. Perhaps the shelling stopped at night, or at least grew less intense. Perhaps they could try to get home in the hour before dawn.

  Or perhaps she was being foolish: hunger and lack of sleep were unlikely to be improving her judgement. But how could they survive here, without even water?

  ‘Effi?’ a voice asked, sounding both surprised and pleased.

  Startled, she raised her eyes to a familiar face. ‘Call me Dagmar,’ she whispered. The woman might denounce her, but there seemed no reason she should do so by accident. Effi had met Annaliese Huiskes almost four years ago. She had been a staff nurse at the Elisabeth Hospital, and Effi had been one of the film stars who had volunteered to visit the hospital’s swelling population of wounded soldiers. Over the weeks of their acquaintance the two women had discovered a shared taste for hospital-flavoured pure alcohol and a shared disgust for the war.

  ‘Dagmar?’ Annaliese said, amusement in her voice. ‘Is it really you, Dagmar?’

  Effi smiled back. ‘It is.’ It was, she realised, an enormous relief to be who she really was.

  ‘How did you end up here?’ Annaliese asked, squeezing herself into the niche as a stretcher party went past. There was just enough space for her to sit down.

  ‘A long story,’ Effi told her. ‘But we were just outside when the shelling started. This is Rosa, by the way,’ she added, as the sleeping girl shifted her body.

  ‘Your daughter?’

  ‘No. Just someone I’m looking after. She’s an orphan.’ Annaliese looked much the same as she had four years earlier – small, blonde and worn-out. But there was something heartening about her, something that hadn’t been there in 1941. She was wearing a wedding ring, Effi noticed.

  ‘I hope you’re going to stay here,’ Annaliese said.

  ‘I don’t know. We were on our way home, and this place… If we leave before dawn…’

  ‘Don’t. The shelling hasn’t stopped since it got dark. And it’s not like the bombing, where you get some warning. You’d just be gambling with your lives. And even if you get home… Effi – sorry, Dagmar – you have to think about the Russians now. Have you heard the stories? Well, they’re all true. We’ve had hundreds of women who’ve been raped, and not just raped – they’ve been attacked by so many men, and so violently, that many are beyond help. They’re just bleeding to death. So stay, see the war out here. It can’t be many days now. The Russians are in Weissensee already.’

  ‘I understand what you’re telling me…’

  ‘Have you ever done any nursing?’ Annaliese interjected.

  ‘Only in movies.’

  ‘Well, how you would like to learn? We’re ridiculously short-handed, and what you see makes you want to weep, but there’s food and water and we do some good.’

  ‘What about Rosa?’

  ‘She can come too. I forgot to say – you’ll also get somewhere to sleep. You’ll have to share, but it’ll be better than this.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful,’ Effi said.

  ‘Okay,’ Annaliese said, levering herself back to her feet, ‘I’ll tell them you’re an old friend, and willing to help. I’ll be back soon.’

  She disappeared up the corridor, leaving Effi wondering about Zarah. If her sister was still out in Schmargendorf, then the Russians would probably get to her before she could. And if Zarah was in a government bunker with Jens, there was no way that Effi could find her. There was nothing more she could do.

  Annaliese was true to her word, returning a few minutes later. Effi woke Rosa and introduced her friend, who led them through rooms full of wounded men, and down some stairs to a small room with bare brick walls and two pairs of bunk beds. A single candle was burning in the middle of the floor.

  ‘That bottom one’s yours,’ Annaliese told here. ‘You start in the morning with me. Now I’ll get you a little water.’

  Rosa sat down on the bed and smiled up at Effi. The smell of shit was weaker here, the smell of blood much stronger. An appropriate spot to see out a war.

  Corpse brides

  April 22 – 23

  Russell could only find one spade in the pitch-black shed, so he sent the Russian back inside, fought his way through the brambles to where he thought Hanna’s vegetable patch had been, and began digging. There was little chance of his being heard – the rain and wind would see to that. Not to mention the occasional slam of an exploding shell. It was a night for burying oneself, not atomic secrets.

  Varennikov had insisted on a depth of two metres, in case a shell landed on top of his precious papers. Russell decided on a third of that – if the choice was between him getting pneumonia and the Soviets an atomic bomb, he knew damn well which he preferred.

  At least it wasn’t cold. He dug on, careful to pile the excavated earth alongside the hole. Once he’d gone down a couple of feet – he supposed he still measured digging in English units because of his experience in the trenches – he pulled the papers out from inside Thomas’ raincoat and placed them at the bottom of the hole. Varennikov had wrapped them in a piece of oilskin that he’d found in the larder, which should protect them from damp for a couple of weeks.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he added Gusakovsky’s machine pistol to the hoard – a weapon for emergencies was all well and good, but being caught with it would see them both shot as spies.

  He shovelled back the earth and tamped it down, first with the spade and then with his feet. The rain seemed to be easing.

  After returning the front door key to its hiding place he went back inside.

  ‘You dug two metres already?’ Varennikov asked with a lamentable lack of trust.

  ‘At least,’ Russell lied. ‘The soil is soft here,’ he added for good measure. ‘Let’s go.’

  Dawn would be around six, which gave them three hours to cover the ten kilometres. This had seemed like plenty of time, but, as soon became clear, it was not. For one thing, Russell was uncertain of the route – he had driven in from Dahlem on enough occasions in the past, but only along those main thoroughfares which he now wished to avoid. For another, visibility was atrocious. The rain had stopped, but
clouds still covered the heavens, leaving reflected fires and explosions as the only real sources of light. It took them more than ninety minutes to reach the inner circle of the Ringbahn, which was less than halfway to their destination.

  They saw few signs of life – the occasional glimmer of light seeping out of a basement, a cigarette glowing in the window of a gouged-out house, the sound of a couple making vigorous love in a darkened doorway. Once, two figures crept furtively past on the other side of the street, like a mirror image of themselves. They were in uniform, but didn’t appear to be carrying guns. Deserters most likely, and who could blame them?

  As Russell and Varennikov entered Wilmersdorf, the sky began to break up, and patches of starlight emerged between fast-moving clouds. This offered easier movement, but only at the price of enhanced visibility. They narrowly avoided two uniformed patrols by the fortunate expedient of seeing them first – in each case a flaring match betrayed the approaching authorities, giving them time to slip into the shadows. As dawn approached an increasing numbers of military lorries, troop carriers and mounted guns could be seen and heard on the main roads. Everyone, it seemed, was hurrying to get under cover.

  Once in Schöneberg, Russell felt surer of directions. He followed a street running parallel to the wide Grunewald Strasse, on which he and Ilse had lived almost twenty years earlier, and passed what was left of the huge Schöneberg tram depot, before turning up towards Heinrich von Kleist Park, where Paul had taken his faltering first steps. The park was in use as some sort of military assembly area, but a short detour brought them to Potsdamer Strasse a few hundred metres south of where Russell had intended. At the end of a facing side street the elevated tracks leading north towards Potsdam Station were silhouetted against the rapidly lightening sky.

  The sprawling goods complex was a few hundred metres up the line. Russell had visited the street-level offices once before, accompanying Thomas in search of some printing machinery supposedly en route from the Ruhr. On that day the areas beside and under the tracks had been choked with lorries, but the only vehicles in sight on this particular morning were bomb victims. One lorry had lost the front part of its chassis, and seemed to be kneeling in prayer.