Potsdam Station (7 page)

‘And how did you get out of Germany?’ Kenyon asked.

Russell gave the diplomat the expurgated version, which had him passed, like a parcel in the children’s game, from one group of selfless anti-Nazis to another, until Sweden loomed on the horizon.

Kenyon wasn’t fooled for a second. ‘The communists got you out.’

‘I suppose most of them were Party members,’ Russell admitted ingenuously.

‘And once you got to Stockholm?’

‘I got passage on one of the neutral sailings the Swedes had arranged with the Germans. Got dropped off in Havana, took a flight to Miami, arrived just in time for my mother’s funeral, which was really sad – I hadn’t seen her since 1939. I spent the next six months trying to tell America what was happening to the Jews, but no one wanted to hear it. Would you believe the
New York Times
has only had two lead editorials on the Jewish question since the war started? Lots of short pieces on page 11 or page 19 – 19,000 Jews killed in Kharkov, how Treblinka operated, etc etc – but no one would spell it all out in capital letters. It became a minor running story.’

Kenyon lit a cigarette. ‘Did you work out why they wouldn’t?’

‘Not really. Several of the editors were Jews, so you couldn’t put it all down to anti-Semitism. I think some of them convinced themselves that a war for the Jews would be harder to sell than a war against tyranny. Some journalists told me the stories were exaggerated, but their only reason for thinking so was that most of the atrocity stories from the First War had turned out to be fakes.’ Russell grimaced. ‘When it came down to it, they couldn’t bring themselves to believe that the Nazis were murdering every Jew they could get their hands on. Apart from being inconvenient, it was just too much to take in.’ He took a swig from his glass. ‘Anyway, I tried. You can only go on flogging an unwilling horse for so long. After that, well, I was feeling a long way away from the people I loved.’

‘They’re still in Berlin?’

‘As far as I know. My wife – she’s my girlfriend really, but people take a wife much more seriously – anyway, she was on the run with me, but things went wrong, and she had to stay behind. If the Gestapo caught her, they never let on, and I’m praying that she’s been in hiding all this time. My son was only fourteen when I left, and he’s more German than English. There was no way I would have put him at risk, even if his mother – my first wife – would have let me.’

‘And you haven’t heard from either of them since ’41?’

‘No. The Swedes got their Berlin embassy to let Paul know I was safe. He thanked them for letting him know, but he had no message for me. He must have been furious with me, and I can’t say as I blame him. When I got to London at the end of ’42 I tried to persuade the BBC to broadcast a message that only Effi would understand, but the bastards refused.’

‘Three years is a long time,’ Kenyon mused.

‘I’d noticed,’ Russell said wryly.

‘So you left the States,’ Kenyon prompted.

‘I was lucky. The
San Francisco Chronicle
’s London correspondent wanted to come home – family reasons of some sort – and my old editor asked if I was interested. I jumped at it.’ He smiled at Kenyon. ‘I’m afraid having an American passport hasn’t made me feel any less English.’

‘It’ll come.’

‘I doubt it. There’s a lot I love about America, and a lot I loathe about England and Germany, but Europe still feels like home.’

‘Try Moscow for a few years. But how was London?’

‘Okay. In any other circumstances I’d have probably loved it, but all I did was sit around and wait. I began to think that the Second Front was never going to happen. When it did, I managed to convince my editor that a year in the trenches qualified me as a war correspondent, and I’ve been trailing after the troops since Normandy. Until now, that is.’

‘They’re making a huge mistake,’ Kenyon said.

‘Who is?’

‘Well, Ike, to start with. But the president as well, for not overruling him.’

‘Word is, Roosevelt’s not long for this world.’

‘I know, but there must be someone at the wheel. Ike’s telling everyone that his business is winning the war as quickly and cheaply as he can, and that winning the peace is down to the politicians. If he doesn’t get the connection, then someone should be getting it for him.’

‘Career soldiers rarely do. But if the occupation zones are already decided, what’s the point?

‘The point,’ Kenyon insisted, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette, ‘is to show some resolve, give the Russians something to think about. If the Red Army takes Berlin, the Soviets will come away with the impression that they’ve won the war on their own.’

‘They damn near have.’

‘With a hell of a lot of help. Who built the trucks their soldiers are riding on? Who supplied the cans they’re eating from? Who just surrounded three hundred thousand of the bastards in the Ruhr Pocket?’

‘Yes, but…’

‘Take it from me, the Russians will go from friend to foe in the time to takes to say “Hitler’s dead”. They’ve already got their hands on half of Europe, and they’ll be eyeing the rest. They might not be as nasty as the Nazis, but they’ll be a damn sight harder to shift.’

He was probably right, Russell thought. But if the Americans had been through what the Russians had, they’d also be looking for payback.

‘What are you going to do when they say no?’ Kenyon asked, changing the subject.

‘I’ve no idea,’ Russell admitted.

He was still pondering that question as he walked back up Okhotnyy Ryad to Sverdlov Square and the Metropol. He seemed stuck in what bomber pilots called a holding pattern; he couldn’t ‘land’ until he knew what had happened to Effi and Paul. One or both could be dead, which would change everything. But even if both were alive… Paul was eighteen now, and more than ready to strike out on his own. Effi might have fallen in love with someone else. Three years, as Kenyon had said, was an awfully long time.

And if she still loved him, well, where would they live?

In the ruins of Berlin? She might be longing to leave the city behind. She might feel more tied to the place than ever.

He had no idea where he wanted to be. Living in hotel rooms and lodgings for three years had left him with an abiding sense of root-lessness. This war had set millions in motion, and some would have trouble stopping.

‘I can’t see what I’m doing,’ Effi said, putting the half-sewn dress to one side. Outside the light was fading, and there’d been no electricity since that morning’s bombing.

‘Have my seat,’ Ali suggested. ‘The light’s better.’

‘No, it’s all right. It’s not as if there’s any hurry. I don’t think the Skoumal sisters will be going out gallivanting any time soon.’ When Effi and Ali had set up the business in late 1942, Frau Skoumal had been one of their first clients, and fashioning dresses for her and her daughters had yielded them a steady supply of food and ration stamps. They had lived above the shop in Halensee in those days, because residents of commercial premises were not obliged to register with the local authorities.

Effi stood up and stretched her arms above her head. ‘I can’t believe how…’

She was interrupted by an urgent series of knocks on their front door. The two women looked at each other, and saw their fears mirrored.

‘Did you hear a car?’ Effi whispered, as she headed for the door.

‘No, but…’

There were more knocks.

‘Who is it?’ Effi asked, remembering to put a few years on her voice.

‘It’s Erik,’ a voice almost hissed.

She let him in, wondering what new disaster had occurred. It was only the second time he had been to the apartment, and he looked shabbier than usual – his coat was missing a button, his trousers badly frayed at the ankles. He was also unshaven, she realised – the first time she had seen him so.

‘I’m sorry for coming here,’ he said at once, ‘but there was no time to contact you in the usual way.’

‘Were those men caught?’ Effi asked.

‘No. At least, not as far as I know. We still haven’t heard from Lübeck, and no news is usually good news. But that’s not why I’m here.’

‘One of them knew me,’ Effi told him. ‘And he stayed here.’

Aslund looked mortified. ‘Oh, that’s bad. I’m sorry. It’s just.. there’s no excuse, but the arrangements… there was no time. I am sorry,’ he repeated.

‘Have a seat,’ Effi offered. Her anger was already turning to guilt. Aslund had saved so many innocent lives.

‘No, I can’t stay. The reason I came – I have someone in need of a refuge.’

‘Of course,’ Effi said instinctively, and tried to ignore the sense of resentment that suddenly welled up inside her. They had not had a ‘guest’ for several months, and she had grown accustomed to living without that particular hostage to Gestapo fortune.

‘I know,’ Aslund said, as if he could feel her reluctance. ‘But…’

‘For how long?’ Effi asked.

‘Until it’s over,’ the Swede admitted. ‘This one’s different,’ he continued, seeing the look on Effi’s face. ‘She’s only eight years old. Her mother was killed by a bomb about a month ago, and the woman who’s looking after her – who sheltered them both for more than two years – she’s seriously ill. She can’t look after the girl anymore.’

‘She’s Jewish?’ Ali asked.

‘Yes. The name on her new papers is Rosa. Rosa Borinski. She’s a lovely little girl.’

Effi hesitated. She wanted to say no, but she didn’t know why. One risk too many, perhaps.

‘There’s no one else,’ Aslund said softly.

‘Of course we’ll take her,’ Effi said, looking at Ali. How could they refuse?

Ali looked concerned. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said. ‘I told Fritz that I’d move in with him until it’s all over. There’ll be more room, but I won’t be around much to help.’

‘That’s all right,’ Effi told her. She felt upset that Ali was going, but hardly surprised. ‘I can manage the girl on my own,’ she told Aslund.

‘That’s wonderful,’ Aslund said, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Someone will bring her here tomorrow. After the day raid, if there is one.’

‘They haven’t missed a day for weeks.’

‘True. But it can’t last much longer. Once the Russians are in the city, the Western allies will have to stop their bombing.’

‘And how long before the Russians are here?’ Effi asked him.

Aslund shrugged. ‘A few weeks. No more than that. And maybe less.’

Russell was woken by the early morning sunlight, and found it impossible to go back to sleep. With two hours to wait until the restaurant opened, he enjoyed a long soak in the oversize bath and then sat by the window with his Russian dictionary, checking through words he might need to use. When the Cyrillic letters began to blur he put the book down, and stared out at the square. A group of four women cleaners were gathered beside the statue of Marx, leaning on their brooms like a coven of witches. Marx hadn’t noticed them, of course – he was staring straight ahead, absorbed in saving humanity.

He ate breakfast alone surrounded by yawning waiters, and then went for a walk, cutting round the back of the Lenin Museum and into Red Square. On the far side, a couple of people were crossing in front of St Basil’s, but otherwise the vast expanse was free of movement. There were no guards outside Lenin’s tomb, a sure sign that the mummified corpse had not yet returned from its wartime vacation in distant Kuybyshev.

Russell ambled across the cobbles, wondering what to do. Would the Soviets actually communicate a refusal, or just leave him dangling for days? Probably the latter, he thought. He needed to push for an answer – it wouldn’t hurt and it might even help. The Soviet Union was one of those strange places – like Oxford or the Church – where money didn’t talk very loudly, and where making yourself heard called for a certain directness. Like shouting, or banging one’s fist on a table.

If the British introduced a National Health Service he could almost guarantee that those who shouted loudest would get the best treatment. Which would still be better than rationing according to income.

His mind was rambling. What if the shouting failed to shift them? What should he do then – travel back to the West? Once the Red Army took Berlin, the Americans, British and French would insist on their own people going in to administer the agreed zones, and he, as a Western journalist, should have no trouble going with them. But who knew how long it would be before the Red Army declared the city safe, and allowed their Allies in? Weeks probably, maybe even months.

Was there nothing more he could offer the Soviets? He couldn’t think of anything. He needed a friend, a sponsor.

Shchepkin, he thought, without much hope. But there was no one else.

Yevgeny Shchepkin was the closest thing he had to a friend in Moscow. When Russell had refused the Russians’ invitation to the Soviet Union at the end of 1941, he had gained the impression that Shchepkin had actually been pleased, as if he knew that his bosses meant Russell no good, and was pleased that their plans had come to nought. That might have been wishful thinking – it was hard to know. When they had first met in 1924, both had been enthusiastic communists. At their meetings in 1939, Shchepkin had still seemed committed, but on a much more pragmatic level, and by 1941 Russell had gained the distinct impression that his old comrade was just going through the motions.