Russell thought of pointing out that the Soviets employed couriers, but decided against it. He didn’t think Lindenberg had a sense of humour, or at least not where his country and work were concerned.
After they parted, Russell walked west towards Park Lane, and then across Hyde Park towards Kensington Palace Gardens. There were several horsemen exercising their mounts on Rotten Row, and the park seemed chock-full of nannies and their infant charges — the newspapers might decry the government’s lurch towards socialism, but power and privilege seemed less than ruffled.
At the Soviet Embassy he was given ample time to study the prominently placed accounts of Dynamo’s astonishing 10-1 win over Cardiff at the weekend. When the cultural attache finally appeared, Russell informed him that Effi would be accepting the Berlin film role, and that the two of them would be arriving in the German capital towards the end of the week. He also suggested — unnecessarily, from the look on the attache’s face — that Comrade Nemedin should be apprised of this fact.
When Effi met Rosa at the school gates she was still wondering whether to mention the girl’s father, and her own intention of searching for traces once she reached Berlin. In the event, Rosa raised the subject herself. Another child in her class — a Jewish boy from Hungary — had only just heard that his father was still alive, and on his way to England. Which was wonderful, Rosa added, in a tone that almost suggested the opposite.
It took Effi a while to coax out the reason for this contradiction: they were half the way home when the girl stopped and anxiously asked her, ‘If my father comes back, will you still be my mama?’
Wednesday dawned wet and foggy, and though the drizzle soon turned to mist, visibility remained poor. When Russell and Paul took a train from Kentish Town shortly before noon, they were still hoping that conditions would improve, but the world further east was every bit as murky, and they made the long trek up Tottenham High Road expecting disappointment.
The game was still on. The queues were shorter than Russell had expected, but he soon discovered the reason — most of the fans were already inside. The crowd seemed thinner higher up, but as Paul pointed out, the further they were from the action the less they would probably see. Even close to the touchline the opposite grandstand was only a blur.
They squeezed in behind two school truants waving hammer and sickle flags, and sat themselves down on the damp concrete. There were still almost two hours until kick-off. Russell had initially hoped they would talk during the wait, but Paul had come armed with a book, and he was left alone with his newspapers.
The game in prospect got plenty of coverage, and a win was expected from Arsenal, particularly as several ‘guests’ — including Blackpool’s formidable Stanleys, Matthews and Mortensen — had been drafted in for the day. This was an England XI in everything but name, and national pride was clearly at stake.
Away from the back pages, nothing much caught his attention until an item in The Times almost took his breath away. He read the piece twice to be sure, then stared straight ahead for several seconds, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. Over the next six months, six and a half million Germans would be taken from their homes in the eastern regions of the old Reich, and forcibly relocated in the newly shrunken Germany. Six and half million! How were they going to be fed and sheltered? Or weren’t they? Stupid or callous, it beggared belief.
What sort of Germany were he and Effi going back to?
As he sat there, the local brass band began playing on the far side of the pitch. Drifting out of the fog, the tunes sounded even more mournful than usual.
At 1.45 the Dynamos emerged for their strange warm-up ritual. The conditions might be improving, Russell thought — the players on the far touchline were clearly visible, and the welcoming red flags on the West Stand roof occasionally fluttered into view. The Dynamos went back in, more minutes dragged by, before at last the two teams walked out together, the Russians surveying their surroundings with a breezy confidence, the Arsenal players looking grimly introspective.
The latter’s apprehension soon proved justified, the Russians scoring in the very first minute, and threatening another only seconds later. Soon the fog grew denser again, and the opposite stand faded from sight. The furthest players were vague apparitions at best, the linesman’s luminous flag an almost spectral presence. Stanley Matthews was playing on that side, and playing well if the roars from the opposite stand were anything to go by. But there seemed no end-product until the still-visible Dynamo keeper was suddenly seen diving in vain. 1–1.
The play surged from end to end, the action moving in and out of focus as the fog swirled across the pitch. Unlike the last match, the spirit seemed anything but friendly. Tackles were flying in from all directions, one savage lunge theatrically lit by the blaze of a magnesium flash bulb. Arsenal gradually got on top, and as half time approached they scored twice in as many minutes. There was an almost instant reply from the Russians, but Dynamo were still 3–2 down when the teams went in.
Intervals usually lasted five minutes, but this one had stretched to fifteen before the players re-emerged. The fog had thinned during the break, but now thickened with a vengeance, leaving Russell and his son with only the faintest view of Dynamo’s equaliser. They could see that the Arsenal players were livid, but had no idea why. Tempers frayed further, and a fist-fight erupted in the Dynamo penalty area. The referee seemed to send off an Arsenal player, but the man in question just ambled off into a dense patch of fog.
The fog thickened further, until only a quarter of the pitch was visible. Why the game had not been abandoned was anyone’s guess, but there was something highly satisfying about the whole business. It felt almost magical. Glancing sideways, Russell saw a look of utter enchantment on Paul’s face, the same one he’d seen at the boy’s first Hertha game, all those years ago.
Dynamo went ahead with another invisible goal, and Arsenal finally wilted. Much of the crowd was already heading for the exits by this time, but Russell and Paul hung on until the final whistle blew, and the last of the players had been swallowed by the mist.
‘That was incredible,’ Paul said, as they emerged onto the High Road. The buses and trolleybuses were all stuck in the stationary traffic, so they joined the stream heading south, stopping halfway down for a bag of soggy chips.
A train steamed out across the road bridge as they neared the station, and their platform was almost empty when they reached it. Russell expected Paul to pull out his book, but he didn’t. ‘Do you want to go back home?’ he asked his son. ‘Eventually, I mean.’
Paul stared out into the fog for several moments. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I like it here,’ he added almost reluctantly after another long pause, ‘but perhaps that’s only because it’s easier to hide from the past here. I don’t know. What would I do in Berlin? There’s no work there. No paid work anyway. Here I can fill up my day, and earn some money.’ He looked at his father.
‘I’m happy here,’ he said, sounding almost surprised that he was.
‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,’ Russell told him.
Paul smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. Really. I only had one nightmare this last week — did you notice?’
‘Yes,’ Russell said. Effi had pointed it out.
‘It’s like a poison,’ Paul said. ‘It has to work its way out of your system — that’s the way I see it. And you have to let it. But not by pretending that everything’s fine. Do you remember telling me once how important it was to keep your mind and your emotions turned on?’
‘I remember.’ He’d been trying to explain what he’d learnt fighting in the First War.
‘Well I’ve tried to do that, and I think it works. It’s like an antidote.’
Russell winced inside as he thought of the pain his son had been through, was still going through. ‘You don’t think talking helps?’
‘I do talk to people,’ Paul said. ‘Just not the family.’
/> ‘Who then?’ Russell asked, feeling hurt and knowing he shouldn’t be.
‘Solly’s a great listener. And Marisa is too. It would be hard talking to you, Dad. Or to Effi.’
‘I suppose it would,’ Russell conceded reluctantly. He had never been able to talk to his own parents about the trenches.
A train was audible in the distance, and two fuzzy lights soon swam into view. ‘And the talking does help,’ Paul said.
‘Good,’ Russell told him. Crammed inside the suburban carriage compartment for the journey home, he felt a huge sense of relief. He might be going back into hell, but his son was going to be all right.
On Thursday afternoon Russell collected their tickets from Embassy reception, and had a long talk with Solly Bernstein about the sort of freelance articles which the latter would be able to sell, always assuming that Russell could find some way of getting them back to London. According to Solly, no one was interested in the hardships of ordinary Germans, and not many more in the fate of Europe’s surviving Jews. Though there might be some mileage in the growing number of those intent on breaching the British wall around Palestine.
Arriving home around six, Russell walked into a wonderful aroma — Zarah had used all their newly surplus rations for a farewell family dinner. But the cheerful mood seemed forced, and he and Effi were relieved to escape for a few minutes’ packing. There was, in truth, not much to take — they had left Germany with next to nothing, and had bought little in London. ‘I’m sure actresses are supposed to have more clothes than this,’ was Effi’s conclusion as she closed her battered suitcase.
In the morning she walked Rosa to school for the last time. When they said their goodbyes the girl seemed determined not to cry, but Effi’s tears broke down her resistance. Walking back to the flat alone, Effi couldn’t remember when she’d last felt so wretched.
An hour or so later, she and Russell climbed into a taxi and waved goodbye to Zarah. Sitting in the back, they watched London slide by, all the drab buildings and overgrown bombsites, faces still etched by the hardship of war. Berlin, they knew, would be a hundred times worse.
Their boat train left on time, rattling out across the dark grey Thames, and over the long brick viaducts beyond. They might be going home, but they were not returning to anything familiar, and as the misty English countryside slipped past, Russell was assailed by the feeling that, for all their careful calculation, they were simply walking off a cliff, in the hope that some unknown net would catch them.
David Downing
Lehrter Station
Death of a swan
T hat afternoon the Channel was cold and grey, a bitter northerly wind driving everyone off the decks and into the overcrowded seating areas. The passengers were overwhelmingly male, some in uniform, rather more bound for Germany in the civilian dress of an increasingly post-military occupation. Listening to the young soldiers’ banter, Russell was reminded of similar voyages in the years of the First War, and experienced what was, for him, a rare awareness of being English. He hadn’t felt at home in London, and despite all the apprehension and uncertainty surrounding their German future, he still found it hard to regret their departure.
Beside him on the crowded bench, Effi also had mixed feelings. Though still not convinced that she’d been right to leave Rosa behind, she couldn’t escape a sense of satisfaction at the prospect of returning home, even if Berlin was largely in ruins. And, almost despite herself, she felt excited at the prospect of working again. A life spent acting was something she’d taken for granted until 1941, and she had missed it much more than she expected.
Night had fallen by the time they reached Ostend, and their American-supplied papers saw them almost whisked through the entry procedures. Someone at the US Embassy in London had decided that a fictional marriage was the simplest option, and Effi was now travelling as Mrs Russell, with her own American passport. She had initially objected — ‘I’m a German,’ she had told Russell indignantly. ‘Of course you are,’ he had told her with a smile, relieved that she’d been given the potential protection. ‘Someone else’s piece of paper is not going to change that, is it? Think of it as a part, and the passport as a prop.’
Now, seeing the problems that other returning Germans were having, she had to admit the practicality of the arrangement. But she still meant to get a new German passport at the earliest opportunity. The old one had been left in the Carmerstrasse flat when they both fled Berlin in December 1941, and had presumably been scooped up by the Gestapo. If the stories in the British papers could be believed, it had probably been put to use by some fleeing Nazi’s wife or mistress.
Their train was waiting on the other side of the arrivals shed, a long line of wagons-lit which had somehow survived the ravages of the last few years. A two-berth compartment was better than Russell had expected, but the bedding was sparse and there was, as yet, no heating. He tried closing the door, and found it almost cut out the noise of the soldiers in the next carriage. ‘We might even get some sleep,’ he muttered.
‘It’s scary, isn’t it?’ Effi said.
‘What is?’
‘We’re going back but we’re not really going home. When people say they’re going home they usually mean they’re going back to the familiar, the known, and we’re not doing that, are we? We have no idea what we’re letting ourselves in for.’
‘We have some idea. We’re going back to a city in ruins, and we know it’ll be difficult. But we have food and shelter guaranteed, and you have a movie to make. If that falls through, you can always go back to London.’
‘And leave you in Berlin.’
‘I’ll fix it so I get back to London on a regular basis. I can always offer to spy on the English as well.’
‘John!’
‘I know. This is not good. But we’ll get through it somehow. We were in a much worse situation than this four years ago.’
‘That’s not saying much.’
‘True, but we’ll think of something.’ He gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.
‘I know the flat was crowded, but I loved having everyone around — the children and Zarah and Paul. Didn’t you?’
‘I did, most of the time.’
‘I want a big house in Berlin. Not now, of course, but eventually. Like Thomas’s, with lots of bedrooms and a big garden.’
‘That would be good,’ he agreed, though how they would ever afford one was something else again. He doubted whether double agents and actresses approaching forty were paid that much.
The carriage seemed to be heating up, which suggested an attached locomotive. Russell stepped down onto the platform for a better view, and was promptly told to get back aboard — they were leaving.
The train picked its way through the sparsely lit town and out onto the darkened Flanders plain. Russell waited for it to gather speed, but twenty-five miles an hour seemed the limit of the driver’s ambition. They took to their respective bunks, and Effi was soon sleeping soundly, despite noisy stops in Bruges and Brussels. Russell lay there feeling every kink in the war-worn tracks, and woke with surprise to find light shining through the crack in the curtains.
He climbed down as quietly as he could, and slipped out into the corridor just as the train rattled its way through a succession of points. Through the window he saw gutted buildings stretching into the distance, row upon serrated row. And then, as the train began to slow, Cologne Cathedral loomed above him, barely touched by the calamity which had engulfed the surrounding city. ‘There must be a God,’ he murmured to himself.
‘There must,’ Effi agreed, appearing beside him and taking his arm. In such a sea of debris the cathedral’s survival had all the appearance of a miracle.
In a cleared space beside it, people were laying out items for sale on sheets and blankets. There were household objects of all kinds, and Russell thought he detected the glint of cameras, but there was no sign of food.
The railway bridge across the Rhine was still under recons
truction, and the train could go no further. They joined the scrum on the platform, and followed signs to the pontoon bridge for motor traffic and pedestrians. There was little of the former — only a couple of British Army jeeps — but steady streams of the latter were moving in both directions. A cold wind from the north was rippling the water and the Union Jacks that adorned each bank. The wide river was empty of shipping, and the broken skyline of the city behind them made it hard to believe that hundreds of thousands still called it home.
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.’
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