Silesian Station (2008) (39 page)

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 know 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.

Driving back from Grunewald after dropping off his son, Russell found himself wondering how many of those children had seen their fathers for the last time. Paul, at least, was lucky in that respect - neither of his would be sent to war.

He bought a paper when he reached Potsdamer Station, but no corpses had been discovered, no war declared. As for the trains, nothing was certain, but a journey to Bitburg was still theoretically possible. Trains were scheduled to depart for Cologne at nine and eleven on Sunday mornings, and both had connections to Trier and Bitburg. And yes, the clerk replied to Russell's query, both stopped at Potsdam. At twenty-two minutes past the hour.

Russell stopped off at Hunder's garage on the way home, and paid the usual inflated price for a full tank of petrol. Back at the flat, Effi was waiting in the red dress. 'It seems like a good night to go dancing,' she said.

They ate on the Ku'damm and headed east. The dancehall under Alexanderplatz Station was packed with people drinking too much, dancing too vigorously, laughing too loud. Berlin's adults were also saying farewell to peace, and the popping corks of their sekt bottles sounded like an ironic echo of the war unfolding in Poland.

Russell and Effi danced themselves to near exhaustion, then drove up to the Kreuzberg. The moon was yet to rise, the sky bursting with stars, and they sat on a wooden bench for a long time, looking out across the war-darkened city.

Russell arrived at Neuenburger Strasse soon after seven the following morning. He expected to find Sarah asleep, but she was emerging from the bath-room as he came up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later they were motoring south towards the Avus Speedway.

He had thought it better for her to join the train at Potsdam, and so avoid any possible checks at the main Berlin termini. He was probably overreacting - nothing had appeared in the papers to suggest a search was underway - but it was a nice day for a drive, all blue sky and late summer sunshine.

Their destination reminded him of Wilhelm's leaflet and article. He told Sarah about them, and his difficulty in getting them out of Germany. Would she be willing to take them across the border?

'Yes, but how...'

'I'll send them to you at the Hohenzollern Hotel. The post office will be shut today, and I wouldn't want you taking them on the train - there'll probably be spot-searches, particularly as you get near the border. But once you leave Bitburg...'

'It'll be just one more charge against me if I'm caught,' she said dryly.

'Something like that.'

'Of course I will,' she said.

'I'll send them off tomorrow. And if they get there after you've left, too bad.'

They reached Potsdam with almost an hour to spare. Sarah bought her ticket and they shared a mostly silent breakfast in the cavernous station buffet. The man in the ticket office had assured them the train was running, but it was still with some relief that Russell saw it round the long curve and ease in to the platform. It was less packed than some he had seen over the last few days, but still uncomfortably crowded.