Masaryk Station jr-6

by David Downing

  Having said his piece, Nedic led Russell through to a sparsely furnished room at the back. There were landscapes on two of the walls, and a portrait of a young girl on another. Outside the window, ship’s masts were visible.

  Nedic briefly disappeared, then returned with a bottle and two glasses. After pouring two generous measures, he passed one across and carried his own to an armchair. ‘So begin.’

  Russell asked him the same questions he’d asked the other two, and got almost identical answers. The difference lay in the intended audience: Srskic and Udovicki had been speaking to the world, while Nedic was addressing his Party enemies. If his house was bugged, he was literally broadcasting his innocence; if it wasn’t, he was relying on Russell to spread the news.

  When they were finished, Russell walked across to the window. ‘It’s a wonderful view from here. It must be even better outside.’

  Nedic just stood there, waiting for him to go.

  ‘The weather’s been really unusual today,’ Russell said, hoping it didn’t as ridiculous as he thought it did.

  Nedic’s double-take was almost Chaplinesque. ‘I suppose it is a good view,’ he admitted. ‘Come, I’ll show you.’

  They climbed down the steps to the backyard. Beyond the gate, a single railway line curved along the back of the houses, beyond that, a gentle slope leading down to the river, scattered with trees and the reminders of war. A line of oil barges was heading upstream, presumably from Romania. ‘We must be quick,’ Russell said. ‘I was asked to get your appreciation of the situation, and some sort of list.’

  ‘The first is easy,’ Nedic said, looking animated for the first time. ‘Tito and his followers have treason in their hearts. They are traitors to the Cominform, and to our own revolution. The comrades in Moscow must act soon, or it will be too late. Tell them there is no hope of a political solution-a show of force is needed to galvanise all those comrades who have fallen for Tito’s lies. They will know best what to do, but just moving some troops to the border would bring many comrades to their senses. I am sure of it.’

  Russell wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there. ‘And the list?’ he asked, hoping there wouldn’t be one.

  ‘I have typed out the names of every member of the Central Committee,’ Nedic told him. ‘All you have to remember is a number-72731. If a new leadership is deemed necessary, then the seventh, twenty-seventh and thirty-first comrades on the list can be relied upon. As of course can I.’

  It was better than Russell expected. But how would he explain a list of YCP Central Committee members?

  ‘It was printed in Red Star last year. You copied it out and brought it with you, planning to interview all the comrades that you could.’

  ‘Sounds feasible.’

  ‘The list is inside. But one last thing,’ Nedic said, pausing at the back door. ‘You must stress what little time is left. We could all be arrested tomorrow, and once we’re on Goli Otok, there will be no one left here to invite them back.’

  Russell nodded, and stepped back into the house. They had only been outside for a few minutes, but he could almost feel the suspicion seeping from the bugs. He silently accepted Nedic’s list, mentally repeated the number, and stepped out through the front door. As he’d expected, there was a man loitering a short way down the street, one who suddenly felt like a walk the moment Russell appeared.

  But he wasn’t stopped and searched on his way back to the hotel. He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening transcribing his notes of the interview and writing the article he thought his hosts wanted, a mattress of loyalty on a bed of defiance. That finished, he celebrated with the most luxurious meal he could find, which was neither that good nor that expensive.

  The good weather came to an abrupt end while he was eating, rain beating on the windows of the restaurant like someone demanding entrance. No cab appeared to save him a drenching, so he took a hot bath to ward off a cold-an old wives’ tale, no doubt, but a pleasant end to a difficult day.

  On Thursday, Effi travelled out to Zehlendorf for lunch with Lisa Sundgren. ‘I’ve got nothing for you,’ she told the other woman as they entered the hotel dining room. ‘My KPD friend said he’d talk to a Czech comrade, but he hasn’t had time to meet him yet.’

  ‘Oh that’s a pity,’ Lisa smiled. ‘I’m doing so badly myself, I was hoping you’d come up with a miracle.’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Well let’s eat anyway. There’s not much choice, but the food’s not bad here. Better than I expected.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Effi said, scanning the rest of the clientele. Most looked American.

  After they had ordered, Lisa described several recent visits to the recently reopened Czechoslovak embassy. ‘They’ve never told me that I can’t have a visa. They just say it’ll take a long time, longer than they know I’ve got in Berlin, so there’s no point in my even applying. And they’re so totally unsympathetic. I’ve seen three different men there, and all exactly the same-cold, indifferent, almost cruel. One actually told me that many Germans were killed in 1945, so my daughter was probably dead anyway.’ Lisa shook her head. ‘And she may be, I know that, but …’

  Their food arrived, limiting conversation for the next few minutes.

  ‘I’ve met two other women who are looking for their children,’ Lisa said eventually. ‘One in Poland, one in Moravia. After the Moravian woman had listened to my story, she warned me that the Czech government would be afraid of letting me back in, in case I demanded my first husband’s business back, and kicked up a fuss when I was refused. So I went back to the embassy and said I was more than happy to sign away any rights to compensation, that I just wanted my daughter back. And all they said was, “You have no rights to sign away”.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Effi agreed.

  ‘And if they did suddenly change their minds and gave me a visa, now I wouldn’t trust them to let me out again.’

  ‘My KPD friend … how did he put it? He thinks the new government’s being more Soviet than the Soviets; that they’re seeing everyone as a potential enemy at the moment. But he also believes that things will settle down in a few months.’

  ‘I can’t wait that long. And I don’t think my husband will agree to a second trip. I’m beginning to think-I don’t even know if I should be telling you this-but I’m beginning to think that Uschi’s only way out is the one I took.’

  ‘But you can’t even contact her.’

  ‘I know. But this Moravian woman, she knows people who are willing to carry messages across the border. For money, of course. And she thinks they might also be willing to supply travel permits, and other papers. Forgeries, I suppose. It’ll be expensive, but I’ve already spent a fortune getting here, and to go back empty-handed …’

  ‘Be careful,’ Effi warned. ‘There are thousands of Berliners still looking for lost relatives, and a whole new army of men who see them as a business opportunity. I’m not saying that they’re all crooked, but I wouldn’t part with any money until I was sure. If they can find Uschi and bring back a message, then they’d be worth paying, but don’t start asking after false papers, not yet. I might be able to help with those.’

  Buying a newspaper on his way home from work, Strohm noticed the short piece at the bottom of the front page. The Rummelsburg repair shop workers, after lengthy discussion with Party officials, had reconsidered their opposition to certain new procedures, and re-affirmed their determination to make their workplace a model of socialist enterprise.

  At the same meeting time heartfelt tributes had been paid to Stefan Utermann, veteran of the Party’s underground resistance to the Nazis, survivor of Buchenwald and the former manager of the Rummelsburg railway repair shop, who had been killed in a tragic accident the previous evening. The authorities were still trying to piece together the circumstances, but Comrade Utermann had been knocked down and killed by a passing train.

  It was still raining in Belgrade next morning, and Russell borrowed a ho
tel umbrella for the walk to the Foreign Press Liaison office. Comrade Popovic took his article away for ten minutes, and then brought it back with a smile. ‘Very informative,’ he said, without apparent irony. ‘But you realise you can’t send it from here?’

  ‘Of course not,’ Russell agreed. That would imply official approval.

  ‘Are you leaving today?’ Popovic asked.

  ‘No, tomorrow. I thought I’d have a day off, see the sights.’

  Popovic looked surprised, and Russell could understand why-Belgrade wasn’t the most seductive of cities.

  He splashed back to the hotel, and sat with a coffee staring out of the window. A puddle was spreading around a blocked drain; if the rain didn’t stop soon the square would turn into a lake.

  It was now or never as far as Zoran Pograjac was concerned, and Russell knew he had to make the effort. Youklis might be a piece of shit, but he could make Russell’s life a misery. Appeasement was the smart way to go.

  Though not at the cost of a Yugoslav prison. Russell knew he needed some insurance.

  Back in his room he wrote a short letter on Majestic stationery, which he signed and dated. A two-minute walk brought him to the central Post Office, where a pretty young clerk named Adrijana assured him that it would be delivered next morning.

  It wasn’t much, but at least it was something.

  Back at the hotel, he collected his room key, left his shadow in the lobby, and headed for the back exit which he’d scouted out the previous day, with precisely this eventuality in mind. It took him almost an hour to reach the address Youklis had given him, a crumbling block of flats in an industrial area close to the docks. He spotted no watchers on his first pass, and decided that further loitering would be counterproductive-in this sort of area any stranger was conspicuous.

  The outer door was open, the lights inside not working. As far as he could see, there were four flats in each floor, which put Pograjac on the second. Third if your name was Youklis.

  He started up the darkened stairwell, which was suffused with the smell of something rotten. If the leaders of the domestic opposition were all living in places like this, Tito had nothing to worry about.

  A door opened on the first floor as he went past, and closed almost as quickly, offering the fleetest glimpse of a dark-eyed woman’s frightened face. There was no sign of life on the second, and the only numbered door was the one he wanted. He stood there listening for a few seconds, but all he could hear was a distant ship’s horn and the sound of his own breathing.

  He knocked on the door.

  It was opened almost instantly by a middle aged man in working clothes.

  ‘Zoran Pograjac?’ Russell asked.

  The man nodded and gestured him in with a smile. Russell was barely across the threshold when two more men with guns emerged from adjoining rooms. As he took an instinctive step backwards, he felt another gun in his back.

  One of the men in front of him said something in Serbo-Croat, which he assumed meant ‘you’re under arrest’.

  ‘Is there anything the matter?’ Annaliese asked Strohm, after a supper spent mostly in silence. ‘I feel like I’m living with someone who isn’t really here.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It’s work. I’ve had a difficult couple of days.’

  ‘Your old friend Stefan.’

  He nodded. He couldn’t seem to shake it off. The day after seeing Utermann his boss had called him upstairs to congratulate him, which had only made him feel like shit. He kept telling himself that if he wanted an active role in the new socialist Germany he had to accept the occasional setback-omelettes and broken eggs, etc. And if he didn’t … well, that wasn’t an option. What else would he do with his life?

  ‘You said it was settled.’

  ‘It is. Let’s talk about something else.

  ‘Okay. Effi dropped in at the hospital today. She said someone told her the weekend trains to Werder were back to normal, and she suggested we take a trip out this Sunday. She says Rosa’s hardly ever been out in the country.’

  ‘That sounds like a good idea. Am I invited?’

  She gave him a look. ‘You’re expected.’

  He smiled, took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘Let’s have an early night.’

  ‘All right,’ she said, hugging him tighter and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘But first I have something to tell you.’

  She sounded nervous, he thought, which wasn’t like her. He gently pulled back to look her in the eyes.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He stared at her, shaking his head with wonder, feeling joy rise up through his chest.

  ‘You look pleased.’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that!’

  ‘We’ll have to get married.’

  ‘We don’t have to.’

  ‘Will you marry me?’

  Annaliese beamed at Strohm. ‘Of course I will.’

  The interrogation started badly. There was no English speaker available, so the UDBA officer-Russell recognised the uniform-put his face a few inches from Russell’s and shouted at him in Serbo-Croat. When an English-speaker was found, and Russell was accused of consorting with the enemy, his response-that he could hardly consort with someone who wasn’t there-earned him a playful slap in the face which almost knocked him over. Wit, it seemed, was not appreciated.

  Russell managed to look suitably cowed by the prospect of more violence-which didn’t stretch his acting ability-and things settled down a bit. His interrogator, who introduced himself as Colonel Milankovic, was a tall, prematurely grey Serb with an obvious bullet scar on his neck. He made a brief statement, which the interpreter, a much younger man with the scant beginnings of a beard, faithfully conveyed to Russell. His choices it seemed were two: the marble quarry on Naked Island-the good option-or execution as a spy.

  ‘I’m not a spy,’ Russell lied.

  ‘What other reason could you have for visiting a known enemy of the state?’

  ‘I didn’t know Pograjac was an enemy of the state,’ Russell said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I knew he was an opponent of the current government, and in my country journalists talk to members of the opposition. And that’s why I visited him. To ask him for an interview. As a journalist, not as a spy.’

  Colonel Milankovic’s response seemed much longer than the eventual translation-‘we have only your word for that.’

  He was then told that his hotel room was being searched, and that questioning would resume once the search team had reported.

  ‘They won’t find anything,’ Russell insisted. And they wouldn’t, unless they had put it there.

  He was left to stew in the interview room. The door hadn’t been locked, but there was at least one guard outside, and there was nowhere he could run to. He didn’t even know where he was, having been brought there in the back of a windowless van. It had only taken about fifteen minutes, so he assumed he was still in Belgrade.

  He paced up and down, rehearsing what he should and shouldn’t say, wondering how long it would take the Soviets and Americans to realise he’d gone missing, and whether they would or could do anything about it. He still had his insurance, but he wanted to be sure of exactly what he was being accused before revealing his only defence. Proving he wasn’t an American spy wouldn’t help that much if they thought he was working for Moscow.

  His inquisitors returned. Something had been found in his hotel room-the list of Central Committee members.

  He used the explanation Nedic had suggested, grateful that he’d resisted the temptation to write the code number down.

  ‘Ah,’ Milankovic said, with the air of a dog who’d just caught sight of a brand-new bone. Perhaps Mister Russell could recall the five-minute conversation he’d had with Comrade Nedic, behind the comrade’s house?

  Russell decided not to ask how they knew about that-one slap a day was more than enough. ‘We were looking at the river,’ he said, trying to sound surprised.

  ‘W
hy?’

  Russell shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s the Danube. It’s famous. I wanted to see it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Why not? Why would I have a secret conversation with Comrade Nedic? He’s a friend of Moscow, isn’t he?

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Well, he has that reputation. As you already know, he said nothing to confirm it.’

  ‘Inside the house.’

  ‘Or outside. Are you really accusing me of working for the Soviets?’

  Milankovic smiled to himself. ‘No, Mister Russell, I’m accusing you of working for the Americans. Or perhaps the British. They are both sponsoring campaigns of terror against Yugoslavia, arming and funding former war criminals and sending them across the border on murder missions.’

  ‘I do know that. But I don’t work for either of them. I’m a journalist.’

  Milankovic just looked at him.

  ‘I also know the details of a particular operation, which is either already underway or will be very soon.’

  Milankovic seemed almost disappointed. ‘Comrades you’ll now betray in hope of saving your skin.’

  Russell shook his head. ‘They’re no comrades of mine, and I informed your authorities about them before I was arrested.’

  ‘Who? How?’

  He explained about the four Krizari and their terrorist plans. ‘I saw the false papers which a Catholic priest in Trieste had prepared for them, on instructions from American intelligence. The letter I sent to your central bureau contains the names on those papers. Which should make them easy to pick up.’

  Now Milankovic looked bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just report this to the police?’

  ‘I’m a journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m supposed to report events, not manipulate them.’

  ‘So why have you? Why would you put the interests of Yugoslavia above those of your own country?