Lehrter Station

by David Downing

  A train was pulling in as he reached the top of the steps, and he squeezed himself aboard. As it rattled along above Lüneburger Strasse he stood, face pressed against the window, his mind a foggy blank. At Zoo Station he sleepwalked his way down to the familiar buffet, and joined the queue before he realised that coffee was not what he needed. The first bar he came to supplied a ludicrously expensive schnapps which he downed in a single swallow. He felt like repeating the trick with the second, but carried it instead to a table, and sank wearily into a chair.

  He had just killed a man in cold blood, and the most that he felt was a lack of surprise. It had been coming for years, he thought. Even the identity of the victim seemed part of the some strange logic – not a Nazi, but a high-ranking member of the NKVD, a guardian of the Revolution that had once so inspired him, that had changed his life, found him the mother of his son, brought him to Germany.

  Shchepkin would understand the warped inevitability of it all, he thought. But no one else.

  There was no use trying to explain this to Effi – she just didn’t think that way. He would tell her he had killed Nemedin in self-defence. That if he hadn’t, Nemedin would have killed him, and Shchepkin, and most likely Shchepkin’s wife and daughter. And sooner rather than later.

  A simpler story, and also true.

  But there’d been so many other moments of choice. He found himself remembering his and Effi’s day-trip to the Harz Mountains six summers earlier. That was when they’d decided that some sort of resistance to the Nazis was the least they could live with. Had they made the right decision? Would the world really have been that different if they’d put their consciences in hibernation for a few years? People now dead – like the Ottings in Stettin – might still be alive. He and Effi, he and Paul, would not have spent more than three years apart. He would never have met Nemedin, or stood above his corpse in the snow.

  But good things had also flowed from that decision. If his own contribution had often felt marginal, he had no doubt that Effi had saved lives.

  And Rosa, he thought. A random consequence of the path they had chosen, yet with more power to change their own lives than any twist of political fate. A fresh infusion of innocence to replenish their rapidly diminishing supply. And he missed the girl, much more than he’d expected he would.

  * * *

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Effi asked him, as they set out the following morning.

  He had told her everything the night before, and she’d been less shocked, at least on the surface, than he’d expected. But he was still afraid of catching a new look in her eyes, one that said she saw him differently, that she was disappointed in him. ‘I’m fine,’ he told her.

  She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, but didn’t pursue the matter. She was sure there were things she should say, but hadn’t yet worked out what they were. Their business that morning seemed safer ground. ‘What if Otto 1 – whatever his real name is – tells us to get lost, and goes straight to Fehse? Won’t that bring the wrath of Dallin down on our heads?’

  ‘It might, but what choice have we got? We’ll just have to convince him that we’re not after him. That talking is his best option.’

  ‘Okay.’

  They waited an age for a bus, and had to stand throughout the journey. Yesterday’s snow was already melting, pools of water forming round the dust-choked drains on the Ku’damm. The only sign of life at the Honey Trap was the usual crowd of boys scouring the ground for cigarette stubs.

  Alighting at the Memorial Church, they walked up past the ruined zoo, skirted the western end of the park, and crossed canal and river. It was only a few minutes past nine when they reached Solinger Strasse, and climbed the stairs to Otto 1’s flat.

  Their first two knocks met with no response, the third with an angry shout, the fourth with sounds of movement. ‘Who is it?’ the familiar voice shouted, whereupon Russell held a finger to his lips. When a second enquiry went unanswered, the door began to open, and Russell gave it a helping shove, throwing the opener backwards.

  ‘We need to talk to you,’ Russell said mildly, as Otto got angrily to his feet. Effi closed the door.

  ‘Get the hell out of here,’ Otto told them without much conviction.

  ‘We’re sorry to bust in on you like this,’ Russell continued, ‘but, like I said, we just need a short conversation.’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to talk to you about.’

  ‘Oh, but you have. We know that Otto Pappenheim is not your real name.’

  ‘Of course it is.’

  ‘And we know you’re not Jewish.’

  ‘Of course I am.’

  Russell sighed. ‘Look, we don’t care what identity you use. If you like the name Otto Pappenheim, fine. We’re not planning to tell anyone who you really are, but we do need to know what happened to the real Otto, the one whose papers you ended up with.’

  ‘Why should I tell you anything?’

  ‘Human decency ring a bell? A girl who wants to know what happened to her father?’

  The man just shook his head.

  ‘How about your own skin?’ He took out the photograph which included the fake Otto, and held it up for inspection. ‘If we show this round the Jewish DP camps someone will pick you out from somewhere, and you’ll be finished. So why not just tell us what we want to know, and we’ll just go away and leave you in peace.’

  The man gave him a calculating look. ‘How do I know you’ll do that?’

  Russell shook his head. ‘You don’t, but I will. Assuming you’re not Josef Mengele.’

  ‘Who’s he? I was just a guard.’

  ‘Ah, that’s a start. Where?’

  ‘At Grosse Hamburger Strasse. Just a guard,’ he repeated. ‘I was moved there from Moabit – I didn’t have any choice in the matter.’

  ‘Just obeying orders.’

  ‘Exactly. And all these people nowadays who say we should have refused – I’d like to see what they would have done.’

  ‘I know what you mean. So where did you get Otto Pappenheim’s papers from?’

  The man hesitated, then seemed to realise he’d gone too far to stop. ‘He was just another Jew. The Greifers brought him in after one of them recognised him.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘The usual. They knew he had a wife and daughter, and they wanted him to give them up. They beat him for days but he wouldn’t say a word. Not a single word. Some of them were like that. Not many, but some.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ Effi asked, speaking for the first time.

  ‘He killed himself. Managed to cut his own throat somehow – they found him one morning in a pool of blood. No one could work out how he’d done it.’

  ‘And how did you get his papers?’

  ‘When the Russians got to the Oder everyone knew it was over, and we – all of us who worked there – we went through the papers of those who had died and picked a set with the right sort of age and physical details.’ He saw the look on Russell’s face. ‘You said you would leave me in peace.’

  ‘So I did. Where were they buried – the ones who died?’

  ‘The first few were buried in a corner of the Prenzlauer Cemetery, but people objected, so they had to be dug up and burnt. After that they were all burnt.’ He wrinkled his nose as if remembering the smell.

  Russell gave Effi a questioning look, which she returned with a shake of her head. ‘Then we’ll be on our way. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but at least we don’t have to meet again.’

  They made their way back down the stairs, and walked to the bottom of Solinger Strasse. ‘I shouldn’t be happy,’ Effi said slowly, breaking the silence. ‘Not after what we’ve just heard. But I can’t help it. I feel like… like I can stop holding my breath. Does that make me a terrible person?’

  ‘Of course not. And Rosa will be proud of her father, when she finds out who he was. And if he knew about it, he’d be glad that his daughter found you.’

  ‘Found us
.’

  ‘Yes.’

  After skirting the park and walking down past the empty cages, they stopped off at the Zoo Station buffet. As Russell queued for their drinks he decided to honour his word, and not turn the fake Otto in. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt almost grateful to the man, for preserving the real Otto’s memory, for giving Effi the certainty she craved.

  Fehse though was another matter, and hearing the story of the real Otto’s death had helped Russell make up his mind. Carrying their coffees back to the table he knew what he would do.

  As he put down Effi’s cup, he realised she was crying. ‘I thought I’d lost my chance,’ she half sobbed. ‘When I was alone in the war, I started regretting that I – that we – had never had a child, and with each year that went by it seemed less and less likely that we ever would. And then Rosa arrived and I couldn’t believe my luck. I mean, I really couldn’t believe it – I thought someone was bound to take her away.’ She looked up at him, smiling through the tears. ‘But there isn’t anyone, is there? She’s ours.’

  Ghosts of Treblinka

  With The Man I Shall Kill so close to completion Kuhnert had decided cast and crew would work on New Year’s Day, and Effi had long disappeared on the Soviet bus when a dark-haired youth arrived at the door with a package for John Russell. Assured that he had the right person, the boy handed it over and walked away, ignoring Russell’s query as to who it was from.

  There were people in the kitchen, so Russell took the small parcel upstairs and unwrapped it on their bed. There was a stiff-backed ledger inside but no accompanying letter. Leafing through it, Russell understood why – the book spoke for itself. There was a page for each of Fehse’s employees, stating their real names, and listing details of their past employ in various Nazi organizations.

  Guessing what this meant, he stuffed the book under their mattress, and went downstairs to collect his coat. The sky was overcast, the air warm for the time of year, and his route to the American Press Club seemed unusually well-populated. Outside the Sector HQ the pavement was littered with New Year’s Eve debris, and a large sign welcoming 1946 was draped across the front facade. Like everyone else, the Americans were hoping for something better than the year just ended.

  As usual, all the local papers were available for perusal in the corner of the Press Club lounge, and it didn’t take Russell long to find the item he was looking for. ‘Night Club owner murdered,’ the headline ran – Rudolf Geruschke had been found dead in his Wannsee villa, the latest victim of Berlin’s spiralling crime wave. There were two paragraphs lamenting the recent plague of robberies attributed to Russian and Polish DPs, but no specific connection was offered, let alone proven. The manner of death was not spelt out, and no mention was made of what had been stolen.

  There had, Russell guessed, only been the one item – the book now hidden under his mattress.

  He felt… what did he feel? After more than a little consideration, he had abandoned any idea of passing on all he knew about Geruschke-Fehse to another journalist. Dallin couldn’t have stopped him, or even proved his guilt thereafter, but the American would have known. And the relationship between them – which he and Shchepkin needed to work – would be damaged beyond repair.

  So he had done the next best thing. He had written down all he knew about Fehse, and persuaded Wilhelm Isendahl to fix up a meeting with the Ghosts of Treblinka. A young Jewish man had met him in Neukölln the next evening. He had skimmed through Russell’s notes, raised his head, and offered a look of withering scorn. But he had taken the indictment with him.

  And they hadn’t wasted much time. There was no mention of a mark on the body, but Russell was willing to bet that there’d been one. Crosby would know about it, and that should let Russell out. As far as he knew, only the Ghosts could implicate him, and first they would have to be caught. And given the state of the Berlin police, that seemed less than likely.

  Outside, the sun had broken through the clouds, and a stroll in the Grunewald seemed indicated. He was soon crossing the path that he and his Russian companions had traversed the previous April – only eight months ago, but it seemed like years.

  He was glad that Fehse was gone, or grateful at least that someone had stopped him. He hadn’t pulled the trigger himself, but felt responsible nevertheless. Which brought the number of men he had killed to a chilling six.

  He had thought murdering Nemedin would haunt him, but it hadn’t, not really. And neither would Fehse. If he was haunted by anything, it was leaving the boy on the mountain. Sometimes that awful cry of grief seemed to echo through the ruins.

  There had been no repercussions over Nemedin, no public complaints from the Soviets, no desperate Shchepkin banging on his door. None of which had surprised him. Nemedin might conceivably have confided in someone, but it seemed unlikely – the man had been far too sure of himself.

  He would be replaced of course. There would be another Nemedin looming over Shchepkin’s shoulder, probably just as suspicious, and possibly not so careless. They would have to deal with whoever it was, and Russell would have to deal with Dallin, until Shchepkin found the magic spade that would dig them out of their hole.

  He had hoped that the need for fancy footwork would vanish with the war, but life and the Soviets had had other ideas, and he would have to keep on dancing. Maybe he and Effi could emulate those winners of Depression-era dance marathons, and be the very last couple with their feet still twitching.

  Dallin on Thursday, Shchepkin on Friday – what was it Eliot had said about measuring his life in coffee spoons? He seemed to be measuring his in espionage trysts.

  But Miriam’s father had decided to live, and the family had a flat of their own. Thomas was due back on Saturday with Hanna and Lotte, and Effi was leaving on Monday, intent on returning with Rosa, Zarah and Lothar. Only Paul seemed keen to stay in England, but at least his son seemed happy. A father could hardly ask for more.

  Even his stock as a journalist seemed to be rising. According to Solly, his reporting of the Jewish exodus was the talk of Fleet Street.

  And best of all, it seemed like he and Effi had found each other again, where it mattered, in the heart.

  After walking through the trees for an hour or so, he turned for home. As he rounded the corner into Vogelsangstrasse a scrawny cat ran across the road and disappeared into the rubble.

  It was the first he’d seen since their return, a fitting partner for the first bird, which had flown past their window that morning.

  Maybe Berlin would rise again.

  THE EXTRACT OVERLEAF IS FROM THE OPENING CHAPTER OF ZOO STATION, THE FIRST ‘STATION’ NOVEL, SET IN BERLIN IN 1939.

  Into the blue

  There were two hours left of 1938. In Danzig it had been snowing on and off all day, and a gang of children were enjoying a snowball fight in front of the grain warehouses which lined the old waterfront. John Russell paused to watch them for a few moments, then walked on up the cobbled street towards the blue and yellow lights.

  The Sweden Bar was far from crowded, and those few faces that turned his way weren’t exactly brimming over with festive spirit. In fact, most of them looked like they’d rather be somewhere else.

  It was an easy thing to want. The Christmas decorations hadn’t been removed, just allowed to drop, and now formed part of the flooring, along with patches of melting slush, floating cigarette ends and the odd broken bottle. The Bar was famous for the savagery of its international brawls, but on this particular night the various groups of Swedes, Finns and Letts seemed devoid of the energy needed to get one started. Usually a table or two of German naval ratings could be relied upon to provide the necessary spark, but the only Germans present were a couple of ageing prostitutes, and they were getting ready to leave.

  Russell took a stool at the bar, bought himself a Goldwasser and glanced through the month-old copy of the New York Herald Tribune which, for some inexplicable reason, was lying there. One of his own articles was in it, a piece on
German attitudes to their pets. It was accompanied by a cute-looking photograph of a Schnauser.

  Seeing him reading, a solitary Swede two stools down asked him, in perfect English, if he spoke that language. Russell admitted that he did.

  ‘You are English!’ the Swede exclaimed, and shifted his considerable bulk to the stool adjoining Russell’s.

  Their conversation went from friendly to sentimental, and sentimental to maudlin, at what seemed like breakneck pace. Three Goldwassers later, the Swede was telling him that he, Lars, was not the true father of his children. Vibeke had never admitted it, but he knew it to be true.

  Russell gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and Lars sunk forward, his head making a dull clunk as it made contact with the polished surface of the bar. ‘Happy New Year,’ Russell murmured. He shifted the Swede’s head slightly to ease his breathing, and got up to leave.

  Outside, the sky was beginning to clear, the air almost cold enough to sober him up. An organ was playing in the Protestant Seaman’s church, nothing hymnal, just a slow lament, as if the organist was saying a personal farewell to the year gone by. It was a quarter to midnight.

  Russell walked back across the city, conscious of the moisture seeping in through the holes in his shoes. The Langermarkt was full of couples, laughing and squealing as they clutched each other for balance on the slippery sidewalks.

  He cut over the Breite Gasse and reached the Holzmarkt just as the bells began pealing in the New Year. The square was full of celebrating people, and an insistent hand pulled him into a circle of revellers dancing and singing in the snow. When the song ended and the circle broke up, the Polish girl on his left reached up and brushed her lips against his, eyes shining with happiness. It was, he thought, a better than expected opening to 1939.

  His hotel’s reception area was deserted, and the sounds of celebration emanating from the kitchen at the back suggested the night staff were enjoying their own private party. Russell thought about making himself a hot chocolate and drying his shoes in one of the ovens, but decided against. He took his key, clambered up the stairs to the third floor, and trundled down the corridor to his room. Closing the door behind him, he became painfully aware that the occupants of the neighbouring rooms were still welcoming in the new year, a singsong on one side, floor-shaking sex on the other. He took off his sodden shoes and socks, dried his wet feet with a towel and sank back onto the vibrating bed.