The morning’s journey did nothing to raise their spirits. Town after town seemed sunk in post-war gloom, many with the same desperate outdoor market, hordes of people glancing glumly up at the passing train as they sought to barter their way out of hunger and cold. The chimneys that were issuing smoke were vastly outnumbered by those that were not.
They reached Frankfurt early in the afternoon, and eventually tracked down the station’s US Army office. A Colonel Merritt should have been waiting for them, but all they found was a captain. The Soviets had been causing trouble, Merritt had been called away, and a Colonel Dallin would now conduct the briefing in Berlin. Russell groaned inwardly – he had known and disliked Dallin during the war, when the Californian had been attached to the American Embassy.
And there were no flights to Berlin, the captain added cheerfully. They would have to continue their journey by train.
There were no sleeping berths on this train, only a motley collection of pre-First War vintage carriages. Groups of GIs were flooding the compartment coach to Russell’s right, and the crates of bottles being ferried aboard suggested a rowdy journey. He went the other way, into a mostly German-populated saloon, and found two rear-facing seats opposite an oldish couple in their sixties. The man wore a pince-nez and clothes that Bismarck would have liked; the woman had an unusually long neck and a face that would once have been beautiful. Neither looked in good health, but she seemed determined to be cheerful. They were going to visit their daughter-in-law and grandchildren, she told them – their son had been killed in Russia. ‘The schools are open again,’ she said with evident satisfaction. ‘I’ve brought the children some apples,’ she added, patting her bag. ‘I don’t suppose they have any fruit in Berlin.’
Her husband didn’t say much, but obviously doted on her. Russell had the feeling that he’d recognised Effi, but was too well-mannered to say anything.
They fell asleep soon after the train got underway, her head sliding slowly down until it rested on his shoulder. This encouraged Effi to arrange herself in similar fashion, and soon she was sleeping too, despite the growing cacophony of drunken voices emanating from the next carriage. Russell tried closing his own eyes, but to no avail.
Shortly after ten they stopped in Gotha, where Red Army soldiers lined a surprisingly well-lit platform. But there was no onboard inspection, and the train was soon moving again. Russell found himself slipping in and out of dozes, awakened by the frequent stops and lulled back to sleep during each brief episode of forward motion. It was almost one in the morning when a just discernible station name told him they were around fifty kilometres from their destination, and only a few minutes later when the train inexplicably slowed to a halt in what looked like the middle of a forest. A flutter of movement in the darkness outside was probably the wind in the trees, but a sudden loud report from back down the train sounded like the slam of an outside door. A passenger across the aisle pressed his shielded eyes up against the window, then turned back to his partner with a shrug of incomprehension.
Was something happening?
Apparently not. The train started moving again, and Russell sank back in his seat, feeling an exaggerated sense of relief. He was still reflecting on all those unexplained little mysteries that punctuate life when the sound of a shot cut across the rhythmic clatter of the wheels. Effi’s head jerked off his shoulder, and the eyes of the old couple opposite were suddenly wide open.
There was shouting in the next carriage now, but no more shots. In their own, some people were halfway to their feet, others almost cringing in their seats. And then a young man with a machine pistol came through the vestibule door, swiftly followed by a boy of about twelve and two other men carrying submachine guns. All four had Slavic faces, and faded patches on two of the jackets bore witness to vanished Foreign Workers badges.
One of the men walked swiftly down the aisle to the door at the other end, disappearing through it for a moment, then returning to stand sentry. While the other man with a submachine-gun held his position at the opposite end, the man with the machine pistol suggested, in heavily Russian-accented German, that the occupants of the first two bays deposit any valuables in the old Reichspost sack that the boy was helpfully holding open.
The operation went remarkably smoothly, once the man with the pistol had clarified what he meant by valuables. Cigarettes, canned food and fresh vegetables joined a few items of jewellery and even fewer watches in the swastika-stencilled sack. Would anyone resist? There were two American officers further down the carriage, but neither seemed armed. Most of the Germans seemed more resigned than angry, as if such robberies were just one more aspect of post-war life that had to be endured.
And what, Russell wondered, was happening elsewhere in the train? Much the same, he assumed, which suggested a gang of considerable size.
The sack was drawing nearer, the Russian with the machine pistol working his way through suitcases and pockets with the sort of professional efficiency that suggested previous experience. The boy looked bored.
Their turn arrived. There was no treasure in the old couple’s suitcase, and only the apples in the bag. The woman stifled a protest as these was taken, but there were tears in her eyes. Feeling Effi stiffen beside him, Russell was suddenly afraid that she’d react as she had in London, and this time get shot for her pains. He leapt up to get their suitcase from the rack, which put him between her and the Russian, and then sought to hold the man’s attention by telling him in his own language that they weren’t carrying any valuables. The Russian disagreed, adding Lord Peter Wimsey and their spare shoes to the bulging sack before demanding Effi’s handbag.
She handed it over, much to Russell’s relief, with no more demur than a contemptuous look. The man removed her vanity case, handed back the bag, and offered a slight bow, as if recognising royalty. She had played a Russian princess once, Russell remembered, so some sort of obeisance was only fitting.
‘Rosa helped me choose that compact,’ Effi angrily hissed in his ear.
‘I know. And she wouldn’t want you getting shot over it.’
The sack moved on. The train rumbled across several bridges in quick succession, and two surprisingly well-lit streets and a straight stretch of dark water briefly showed in the window. The latter had to be the Teltowkanal. Anhalter Station couldn’t be more than fifteen minutes away.
Obviously aware of this, the robbers were working even faster. The train was on the final viaduct approaches when the man standing sentry at the rear vestibule door started down the aisle, waving his weapon to deter any last minute resistance. Turning in his seat, Russell watched all four of them disappear through the door at the other end. There was a silence lasting several moments, then everyone seemed to start talking. But no one left their seat.
The two American soldiers were both grinning, as if they’d just seen an excellent review sketch.
The train was slowing down, and Russell thought he heard gunfire in the distance. He and Effi exchanged questioning looks, but there was no repetition. One of the passengers said something that made the others laugh.
They were drawing into the station, and Russell could see lines of boxcars stabled in the other platforms, some in the process of being unloaded. He remembered reading that the Americans were using Anhalter Station as their main entry point for supplies.
Where were the Russians? He supposed they might have jumped off, but surely the train had been going too fast. They were probably just waiting by the doors, secure in the knowledge that most of their victims would sit tight until they were sure it was safe. The Russians would just step down from the train, load up their sacks on porters’ trolleys, and wheel them down to their getaway lorries. Welcome to Berlin.
The train stopped. A minute went by, and another, without any sounds of commotion outside. In fact people from further down the train were walking past the window, apparently oblivious to any danger. The passengers in their carriage began gathering their things together, and the first
brave soul inched his way out of the vestibule door. Russell took their suitcase down again and led the way to the outside world, standing in the doorway for a long moment, listening to the murmurs of conversation, the slap of feet on concrete. Hearing nothing suspicious, he stepped down onto the dimly lit platform. The sky was clear, stars winking down through the skeletal remains of the station roof.
Effi had just joined him when the windows of their carriage exploded inwards, the sound of falling glass chiming through the boom of the offending gun.
Russell dropped to the platform, pulling Effi down after him. ‘Flat as you can,’ he urged her, remembering the sergeant who’d given him the exact same advice twenty-seven years earlier, in a patch of no man’s land a few miles from Ypres.
Raising his eyes, he saw that others had done the same. Most, however, were hopelessly milling.
Another burst of machine gun fire produced screams of pain or alarm.
Who was firing? And at whom?
Feet were pounding towards them, and he did his best to shelter Effi’s body with his own. The owners of the feet ran past, and squinting upwards Russell recognised one of the men from their carriage. The boy was there too, mouth pursed with effort as he hauled the heavy sack along the uneven platform.
There were shouts and whistles, and a last burst of gunfire from those in flight. Russell turned to see the old man from the opposite seat crumple silently to the ground. His wife sank down beside him, and a keening cry seemed to slip from her throat. She raised her head on its long pale neck, and the thought crossed Russell’s mind that swans always mated for life.
* * *
‘It was probably the Lehrter Station Gang,’ the American major told them. Once it was safe to do so, they had sought and found his office in what remained of the old ticket hall. As they waited for transport Russell had asked him about the battle on the platform.
‘The what?’ Russell asked. The ‘Lehrter Station Gang’ sounded like something out of a Hollywood Western.
‘They’re mostly Russians,’ the major explained, ‘prisoners who don’t want to go home. They’ve realised that crime pays much better here than real work does back in Russia. Particularly when the chance of getting caught is close to zero. Unlike the police, they’re armed.’
‘Why Lehrter Station?’
‘It’s where the biggest gang is based. Most of the refugees from the east arrive there, and the whole area’s just one big camp. Ideal for hiding out.’
‘Did they get away with anything?’ Russell asked. He hadn’t seen anyone carrying booty.
‘A few thousand cigarettes.’
‘And they kill men for that?’ Effi said disbelievingly. She still felt shocked by what she had witnessed. She had seen death in many forms during the war years, from bodies mangled beyond recognition to bodies lacking only that unmissable spark of life, but she had never seen a man killed, or a woman widowed, at such close quarters.
The major smiled. ‘You must have just got off the boat. Cigarettes are money here. Better than money.’
‘We know,’ Russell said. It was why they were carrying a dozen cartons in their suitcases. But an economy that used cigarettes for currency still took getting used to.
The door opened to admit a US Army corporal, a lanky young man of around twenty with a ready smile and hopeful eyes.
‘Here’s your ride,’ the major said.
On the walk to the jeep the corporal told them that his name was Leacock, that his hometown was Cincinnati, Ohio, and that he’d been in Berlin since July. Despite the late hour and the freezing temperature, he seemed more than happy in his work. After ushering Russell and Effi into the back and piling their suitcases next to his own seat, he turned and asked if they’d like to ‘see some of the sights.’
‘Like what?’ Russell asked.
‘The Ku’damm’s still busy at this time of night. Worth a look, and it’ll only add a few minutes to the ride. And you’d be doing me a favour. I need to pick something up there.’
‘No, I…’ Russell began, but Effi intervened. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said in German.
‘Have you been here before?’ Leacock asked.
‘Once or twice,’ Russell said drily. He had to admit, he was curious himself. ‘Okay, let’s go via the Ku’damm.’
Leacock needed no second bidding, and soon they were circling the vast, rubble-ringed Potsdamer Platz and heading up a wide avenue of perforated buildings towards the southern perimeter of the Tiergarten. ‘We’re in the British zone now,’ Leacock shouted over his shoulder.
‘Are there no checkpoints between the zones?’ Russell asked him, leaning forward.
‘None. Not even with the Russians. There are patrols, and you need to stop when they tell you to, but that’s it. You can go where you like until someone tells otherwise.’
The Tiergarten was shrouded in darkness, but the damage to Lützowplatz was all too visible – one of Berlin’s loveliest squares, it had been virtually demolished. Tauentzienstrasse had fared slightly better, but here too the familiar landmarks were outnumbered by those that were missing. Beyond the sundered remains of the Memorial Church Russell glimpsed a pile of rubble where the Eden Hotel had stood.
The Ku’damm had been hard-hit too, but life had clearly returned to those buildings still standing. There were lights here, and more traffic, both human and motor. Russell had just registered the survival of the Hotel am Zoo when Leacock swung the jeep across the wide avenue and brought it to a halt outside a nightclub. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, taking the key and vaulting out onto the pavement.
He had only gone a few steps when second thoughts turned him round. ‘You don’t have anything you want trading?’ he asked Russell. ‘Cigarettes, maybe? I’ll get you a good deal.’
Russell shook his head, vaguely amused.
There were three British soldiers smoking by the entrance, and five German women apparently awaiting their attention. A jazz band was playing inside; the music swelling as Leacock opened the door, subsiding as it shut behind him. Russell noticed one of the women slip her hand inside a soldier’s pockets for a casual fondle. The soldier gave her a quick grin, and said something to one of his friends.
The corporal returned, looking less than happy. ‘Goddamn limeys,’ he muttered under his breath as he let in the clutch and almost jumped the jeep back into motion.
They drove past several more flourishing establishments before turning south through Schmargendorf and on into Dahlem, eventually pulling up in a sea of other jeeps beside a large building on Kronprinzenallee. They were, Russell realised, only a ten-minute walk from Thomas’s old home on Vogelsangstrasse.
Leacock led them inside, carrying Effi’s suitcase. ‘Anything you need, come to me,’ he told them en route to the duty office. ‘Any of the drivers will know how to reach me.’
The duty officer checked through his list, and eventually found their names. A bed was waiting two buildings down, in Room 7. They walked the required hundred metres, found their allotted room, and collapsed onto the double bed that virtually filled it. The last thing Russell remembered was wondering whether or not to take off his shoes.
* * *
Given all they had heard about the difficulties the Americans were having in supplying their Berlin garrison, breakfast came as a very pleasant surprise. Bacon, eggs, pancakes and drinkable coffee, all in quantities which the average Londoner could only dream about. The staff, they noticed, were mostly German, and almost pitiably eager to please. There was no mistaking who had won the war.
Back at the duty office, another baby-faced lieutenant searched his records for some sign of their military relevance. When Russell explained that he was a journalist, the man suggested that a visit to the Press Camp on nearby Argentinischeallee was in order. ‘They’ll have your ration cards and press credentials there.’
‘What about my wife?’ Russell asked, rather savouring the phrase.
‘What? Ah…’ He examined the document
he had just discovered. ‘There’s no mention of a wife here. But a Colonel Dallin wants to see you. Do you know what that’s about?’
‘Yes, but my wife…’
‘I am in Berlin to make film,’ Effi interjected in English.
‘Ah. Well I don’t know about that. Why don’t you both have a coffee while I give someone a call, okay? The canteen’s in the basement.’
‘We were also promised permanent accommodation,’ Russell told him.
‘Okay, leave it with me.’
They did as they were told, returning twenty minutes later to find the officer looking more than a little pleased with himself. ‘You have to report to the Reichskulturkammer at 45 Schlüterstrasse,’ he told Effi. ‘It’s in the British zone, off…’
‘I know where it is,’ she said. It was only a short walk from her old apartment.
‘You’ll get your ration card from them.’
‘Yes.’
‘Accommodation… I spoke to someone in Colonel Dallin’s office, and apparently they’ve got something lined up. He’s out somewhere, but they think he’ll be back soon, so if you could just hang on here…’
‘Okay,’ Russell concurred without enthusiasm.
They had been sitting there for more than an hour, reading month-old copies of Stars and Stripes, when Russell had an idea. ‘Are the telephones working – in the city I mean?’ he asked the duty officer.
‘Some are, some aren’t.’
‘Could I try a number?’
‘Sure. Be my guest.’
Russell dialled Thomas’ number, which had worked in April. It still did.
‘Dahlem 367,’ the familiar voice answered.
‘Thomas, it’s John.’
‘What? John? Where are you?’
‘Just down the road. At the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee. Effi’s here too. Are Hanna and Lotte with you?’
Lehrter Station Page 7
