Silesian Station (2008)

by David Downing

  He let go. There was a louder splash than he expected, but no lights appeared in the surrounding buildings. He stared down at the surface of the water, half-expecting the body to flop back up, but there was only a flurry of bubbles.

  A small indeterminate sound escaped from Sarah's lips.

  'Are you all right?' he asked.

  'No,' she said. 'But yes.'

  Russell took another look round. If someone out there was watching them, he or she would have telephoned the police. 'Let's get out of here,' he said.

  They reached Neuenburger Strasse in less than ten minutes. He took her up to his apartment and showed her where everything was. 'I'll bring you some food tomorrow,' he told her, 'and I'll contact our people about getting you out. The tenant below has been called up, so you don't have to worry about moving around, but the bathroom's one floor down... If you do run into anyone just say you're an old friend from...where do you know well?'

  'I grew up in Hamburg.'

  'Then say you're an old friend from Hamburg, just visiting for a few days. Nothing else.'

  She looked utterly lost, and he felt guilty leaving her, but Effi would be worried sick. He could telephone her from downstairs, but...

  'I'll be all right,' she said, and tried to look as if she would.

  He took the offered release. Twenty minutes later he was letting himself into Effi's apartment, feeling like he'd lived several lifetimes in a few hours. She let out a cry of relief and burrowed into his arms.

  Russell's sleep was full of dreams, most of them anxious. He woke in the strange darkness of the blacked-out room and lay there on his back, compulsively listing all the things that could still go wrong. The Standartenfuhrer might have recognized someone - Wilhelm or one of his friends. Sternkopf could be down at Prinz Albrecht-Strasse, leafing through photographs of the state's enemies. Wilhelm and the others could have been stopped on the way back to Friedrichshain and taken to the cellars for interrogation. Sarah Grostein's maid might have found the bloodstain, or the body might have jettisoned its Semitic ballast and floated to the surface, making sense of what someone had seen in the middle of the night. In fact two separate police units could be out on the porch right now, arguing over which had precedence.

  'Jesus,' Russell murmured. He might as well turn himself in and be done with it.

  Effi stirred beside him. 'We're still here,' she said sleepily.

  Russell found himself smiling. 'We are, aren't we?'

  Over coffee they discussed the day ahead. During his drive home six hours earlier, Russell had decided to tell Effi about Sarah Grostein. The latter could hardly be compromised any more than she already was, and calling on the comrades to get her out was a decision he thought Effi should share. No one had told him that his and Effi's exit voucher was a one-time offer, but he couldn't help thinking that Moscow was unlikely to sanction unlimited escapes. If Sarah went, their chances of a similar exit were probably reduced.

  Effi , of course, saw no dilemma. 'If they get her, they'll torture her,' she told Russell.

  'Probably.'

  'And yours will be one of the names she has to give,' Effi added, reinforcing her instinctive generosity with that cold calculation which still surprised him.

  They went their separate ways, she to a meeting at the studio offices, he to the Adlon. After calling Thomas on the hotel phone with news of Miriam's rescue, he walked across to the bar. Work was low on the list of his priorities, but abandoning it completely would be foolishly suspicious. As it was, there was nothing new to report. No prominent Pole had arrived, and none was expected. One of the correspondents had been out walking the streets and riding the trams. Berliners, he said, were unanimous twice over. All of them expected the war that none of them wanted.

  Russell dedicated the rest of the day to his own survival. He withdrew a large sum of cash from his bank, used his ration card to buy groceries at the Wertheim food hall, and drove down to Neuenburger Strasse with them. Frau Heidegger intercepted him, and the usual cup of undrinkable coffee was accompanied by a litany of complaints. Her knees were bad, the rations inadequate, and, to top it all, Beiersdorfer had threatened her with the police. 'The fool says someone stole his helmet,' she said, 'and as I'm the only other person with a key it must have been me. What an idiot! I mean, what would I want with his stupid helmet?'

  Russell made his escape, grateful that Sarah's presence had so far gone unnoticed. She seemed unnaturally listless when he arrived, but made a visible effort to perk up as he explained what he intended doing. She had only made one trip to the bathroom, she said, and that in the middle of the night. He promised to drop in again on the following day.

  From Neuenburger Strasse he drove east towards Neukolln. He had considered following instructions and calling Zembski on the telephone, but why risk a Gestapo listener? Privacy was easier to ensure in person. The photographic studio on Berlinerstrasse was open but empty - the river of parents bringing sons in uniform for a farewell portrait had presumably dried up, now that the boys in question were all leaning over the Polish frontier. The fat Silesian emerged from his small office and smiled when he saw who it was. 'Herr Russell. Long time, no see.'

  'It's good to see you too,' Russell said, offering his hand.

  'Do you need your picture taken again?' Zembski asked. Russell had last visited the studio to pick up a fake passport which the photographer had created for him.

  'I was given your telephone number by mutual friends,' he said softly. 'They said to ask for Martin.'

  Zembski looked surprised, but only for a second. 'You need to get out?' he asked, glancing over Russell's shoulder as if fearing to find the Gestapo in close pursuit.

  'Not me. A woman. Tell them it's "The Violinist". They'll know who she is. Tell them she has to get out now - there's a body involved. And tell them she's bringing them some useful information,' he added, hoping it was true.

  The door opened behind them - a middle-aged couple. 'I'll only be a moment,' the Silesian told them, and turned back to Russell. 'Your photographs should be ready tomorrow,' he said. 'If you call in the afternoon, I'll let you know.'

  Russell left the studio and walked down Berliner Strasse in search of lunch. Most of his fellow-Berliners were wearing resigned expressions that morning, but then they usually did. He ordered a bowl of potato soup and sausages at the first bar he came to, washed it down with a beer, and stepped reluctantly back into the summer sunshine. He spent a few minutes in the Hanomag working out logistics, and then headed north towards the Schade Printing Works. Leaving the car in a street nearby, he took one tram to Alexanderplatz and another out to Friedrichshain, arriving at the park almost half an hour early for his meeting with Wilhelm Isendahl. He sat on the agreed bench and reflected that while Wilhelm had performed brilliantly the previous evening, nothing would persuade him to work with the man again. Wilhelm was too damn sure of himself already, and each dart he planted in the neck of the Nazi bull would make him more so. He would come to feel invincible, and then the bull would get him.

  Watching the young man walk up the path towards him, Russell hoped he was wrong. Wilhelm was his usual calm, efficient self. The van was parked opposite the gate, he said, complete with original number plates - the others were in the Spree. The four young women were staying with two different families. It had seemed better to keep them in pairs, so each girl had someone who understood what they'd been through. The one Russell had brought out - Miriam - had still not spoken, and spent most of her time staring into space. Ursel, Inge and Rachel were in better shape, though all seemed prone to sudden fits of weeping. Russell had been right - their captors had told the girls that if any of them tried to escape they would all be sent to concentration camps for having sexual relations with aryans.

  'There's some money in the Beobachter,' Russell said, indicating the newspaper beside him, 'for the families who are looking after them.' It had been Effi's idea. He almost gave her the credit for it, but remembered in time that Wilhelm didn't k
now her name.

  They agreed to meet in a week's time. Russell walked out to the gate, and stood for a while scanning the road for possible watchers. Satisfied, he strode towards the vehicle, anxiously searching for the telltale signs of a painted-out cross on the side of the vehicle. There were none.

  He drove the van back across town to the Schade Printing Works. Thomas was in his office, looking as tired as Russell felt. He came out from behind his desk and embraced his friend, a glint of tears in his eyes. Once outside in the yard Russell gave him a blow-by-blow account of the rescue. Finding Miriam in her cupboard had Thomas closing his eyes in anguished disbelief, the appearance of the Standartenfuhrer had him opening them wide with alarm. 'But wouldn't he recognize you again?'

  'I don't think so. He only saw us by torchlight, and we were disguised.'

  'God, I hope you're right.'

  'You're not the only one.'

  'Where are the girls?'

  'With families in Friedrichshain. Miriam's in a bad way. She hasn't said a word since we found her. I don't think she'll be going anywhere for quite a while.'

  'We should tell her parents that she's alive, at least.'

  'I will. I'll write to them at the address they gave me.' Russell looked at his watch. 'I have to pick up your lorry in Wedding. I should be back in an hour or so.'

  'Where's your car?'

  'Around the corner.'

  'Then why don't you drive us both up there and I'll bring the lorry back?'

  'Sold.'

  Half an hour later they parted outside Hunder's gates. Russell followed the lorry as far as Lehrter Station, where he stopped off in search of coffee and a newspaper. The main buffet had none of the former, thanks to a storeroom robbery that afternoon - someone was stocking up for a future black market. The newspaper was full of quirky, inconsequential tidbits, as if the editor was clearing the decks for something altogether more serious.

  He drove home by way of Altonaer Strasse. Sarah Grostein's house was bathed in the last rays of the evening sun, a picture of urban serenity. If any of Gruppenfuhrer Hochgesang's friends had come looking for him, they'd had the good manners not to break the door down. And if the body had flopped to the surface of the Landwehrkanal, the police were probably still trying to identify it.

  Effi looked up anxiously as he came through her door, but relaxed when she saw it was him. 'Is everything all right?' she asked.

  'So far.'

  They went out to eat, returning in time to hear a special news broadcast. New proposals had been presented to the Polish Government, the official voice claimed. These were then outlined - Danzig's incorporation into the Reich, a plebiscite to decide the future of the Polish Corridor, extraterritorial roads and railways for the nation that lost that vote. But - and here the voice seemed torn between disbelief and righteous indignation - the German Government had received no reply to these eminently reasonable proposals. The Fuhrer, it seemed, had 'waited two days in vain for the arrival of a Polish negotiator.'

  'As if he had anything better to do,' Effi said contemptuously.

  When they turned on the radio next morning, they discovered that Germany was now at war. The Polish Army had supposedly attacked a radio station in German Silesia, and the Fuhrer had responded with characteristic restraint, invading Poland from north, west and south. He would be explaining his actions to the assembled Reichstag later that morning.

  Three hours later, Russell and his fellow American journalists gathered on the pavement outside the Adlon to watch the motorcade go by. September 1st was another bright sunny day, but only a handful of Berliners had ventured forth to cheer their leader.

  'Where's Gavrilo Princip when you need him?' was Slaney's comment.

  The loudspeakers were soon crackling, the familiar voice echoing down the wide streets of the old city. The Czechs had turned into Poles, but the plot remained the same. Whoever they were, their behaviour - even their very existence - was intolerable. He had ordered the German armed forces across the border, and had himself donned 'the uniform of a soldier' until victory was assured.

  There were chants of Sieg Heil, but the Reichstag deputies were out of practice - there was none of the rhythmic baying that Sportspalast audiences excelled at. It would be an hour or more before copies of the speech were distributed, so most of the journalists headed indoors in search of a drink. Russell called Zembski on one of the public telephones, and was told that his film wasn't ready - he should try again tomorrow.

  He drove down to Neuenburger Strasse, where Frau Heidegger was keen to discuss the coming hostilities. It took him twenty minutes to extricate himself, and another ten to help Siggi carry a new mattress up to Dagmar's apartment. He found Sarah reading one of Paul's John Kling detective novels, and told her that German forces were heading into Poland.

  'Have the British and French declared war?' she asked.

  'Not yet.' He told her that he'd made contact with the comrades, and was waiting for instructions.

  He took the long way home, stopping off at the Potsdam and Stettin stations to see what trains were running. There were no international services leaving from the former, but the latter was packed with foreigners trying to get places on the trains still running into Denmark. Domestic services seemed to be running more or less as usual.

  He bought several papers at Stettin Station and skimmed through them, expecting the worst. But there were no photographs of missing Gruppenfuhrers, no reports of floating corpses in the Landwehrkanal.

  He was about to return home when the sirens sounded. The people on the station concourse looked at each other, wondering if it was exercise, and then shrugged and headed for one of the station shelters. Russell went with them, moved more by journalistic curiosity than any real fear of Polish bombers over Berlin. He found himself in a well-lit underground store-room, surrounded by a hundred or so Germans of varying ages and classes. Those who spoke did so in whispers, and only, it seemed, to people they already knew. Most read papers or books, but some just sat there. There was little sign of anger or resentment, but faint surprise featured on many of the faces, as if each were silently asking, 'How did it come to this?'

  Saturday September 2nd dawned without a British or French declaration of war. Notes had arrived the previous evening demanding the suspension of German operations in Poland, but opinions were divided in the Adlon Bar as to whether the attendant threats to 'fulfil obligations' constituted a real ultimatum. Mussolini was rumoured to be organising another Munich-style conference which, the cynics claimed, would provide London and Paris with all the excuses they needed to leave another ally in the lurch. Russell's instinct told him that the British and French were just taking their time, but experience warned him that it rarely paid to over-estimate the honour of governments.

  Later that morning, he telephoned Zembski.

  'Yes, your pictures are ready,' the Silesian told him.

  'That's good,' Russell said looking at his watch. 'I'll be there in half an hour.'

  The city's traffic was already thinning with the restriction on civilian petrol purchase, and the drive took only twenty-five minutes. Zembski was with a customer, a woman dissatisfied with her daughter's photographic portrait. The Silesian was insisting on the accuracy of his portrayal, and Russell came to his assistance, leaning over the woman's shoulder and remarking what a lovely daughter she had. She gave him a suspicious look, but grudgingly paid up. The door pinged shut behind her.

  Zembski lowered his voice, more out of habit than need. 'Your friend must travel to Bitburg - it's a small town in the west. She should check into the Ho-henzollern Hotel, or one of the others if that's full. There's no time to arrange new papers, so she'll have to register in her real name. It's a risk, but I think the authorities are going to be busy with other matters for a while.'

  'Thank God for war,' Russell said dryly.

  'Indeed,' Zembski agreed. 'She must wait to be contacted. It may take several days, perhaps even longer. It's impossible to say.' He
reached under the counter and came up with an envelope. 'Your photographs of the Havelsee,' he explained.

  'Are they any good?' Russell asked.

  'Of course. I took them myself.'

  Russell decided he had enough time to visit Neuenburger Strasse with the good news, but reckoned without Frau Heidegger. She waylaid him on his way in, and took him to task for 'that woman in your apartment'. It was against regulations, she told him, and 'that idiot Beiersdorfer' was already causing her enough trouble. If he found out, there'd be no stopping him.

  Russell promised his friend would be gone by the next day. 'She's just lost her husband,' he added, knowing that a fellow-widow was guaranteed to enlist Frau Heidegger's sympathy. 'She needed a few days of solitude in a place that holds no memories. She's going back to Hamburg in the morning.' He was halfway up the stairs before he realized he hadn't been offered coffee.

  Sarah was boiling water for tea on Russell's electric ring. She took the news calmly, and together they searched Russell's atlas for Bitburg. It was close to the border with Luxemburg, which made sense. A night trek through the hills and she'd be on a train to Brussels or Antwerp, long a centre of Comintern activities.

  'I'll check the trains and pick you up tomorrow morning,' Russell told her.

  'I'll be here,' she said wryly.

  He drove across town to Grunewald, arriving only ten minutes late to pick up Paul. His son was in his Jungvolk uniform, but seemed as subdued as the rest of Berlin by the outbreak of war. Strangely for a mostly German boy, he seemed more angered than relieved by Britain's hesitation in honouring the guarantee to Poland. 'Of course,' he added a few minutes later, 'if they do declare war on us, then next year's match at Wembley will have to be cancelled.'

  At Paul's request they went to the fairground at the southern end of Potsdamer Strasse. Russell was afraid they would find it closed, but his son's optimism proved justified. It was not only open, but twice as crowded as usual. A good proportion of Berlin's children seemed to be screaming away their unconscious anxieties on the various rides.