Masaryk Station

by David Downing

  His inquisitors returned. Something had been found in his hotel room—the list of Central Committee members.

  He used the explanation Nedić had suggested, grateful that he’d resisted the temptation to write the code number down.

  ‘Ah,’ Milanković said, with the air of a dog who’d just caught sight of a brand-new bone. Perhaps Mister Russell could recall the five-minute conversation he’d had with Comrade Nedić, behind the comrade’s house?

  Russell decided not to ask how they knew about that—one slap a day was more than enough. ‘We were looking at the river,’ he said, trying to sound surprised.

  ‘Why?’

  Russell shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s the Danube. It’s famous. I wanted to see it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Why not? Why would I have a secret conversation with Comrade Nedić? He’s a friend of Moscow, isn’t he?

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Well, he has that reputation. As you already know, he said nothing to confirm it.’

  ‘Inside the house.’

  ‘Or outside. Are you really accusing me of working for the Soviets?’

  Milanković smiled to himself. ‘No, Mister Russell, I’m accusing you of working for the Americans. Or perhaps the British. They are both sponsoring campaigns of terror against Yugoslavia, arming and funding former war criminals and sending them across the border on murder missions.’

  ‘I do know that. But I don’t work for either of them. I’m a journalist.’

  Milanković just looked at him.

  ‘I also know the details of a particular operation, which is either already underway or will be very soon.’

  Milanković seemed almost disappointed. ‘Comrades you’ll now betray in hope of saving your skin.’

  Russell shook his head. ‘They’re no comrades of mine, and I informed your authorities about them before I was arrested.’

  ‘Who? How?’

  He explained about the four Križari and their terrorist plans. ‘I saw the false papers which a Catholic priest in Trieste had prepared for them, on instructions from American intelligence. The letter I sent to your central bureau contains the names on those papers. Which should make them easy to pick up.’

  Now Milanković looked bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just report this to the police?’

  ‘I’m a journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m supposed to report events, not manipulate them.’

  ‘So why have you? Why would you put the interests of Yugoslavia above those of your own country?

  Russell smiled. ‘The interests of American intelligence and the interests of America aren’t the same thing. And no, I don’t have any special affection for Yugoslavia, but I have every reason to loathe the Ustashe. Who doesn’t? And I feel ashamed of my government for using such people.’ He sounded like he believed it, which was probably because he did.

  Milanković was only half convinced. ‘So where did you post this letter?’

  ‘In the central post office. A girl named Adrijana sold me the stamp, and I expect she’ll remember me.’

  ‘We will talk to her, and wait for the morning delivery. In the meantime, you will have to sleep here. I’m sure a meal can be arranged.’

  The food was awful, the cot in his cell as soft as a plank, and if the noises off were any guide his fellow detainees were suffering much more than he was. But he managed a few hours of dream-filled sleep, and felt only slightly less than human when business was resumed.

  The letter had apparently arrived, and the UDBA was duly grateful. As for his arrest, well, Mister Russell would surely appreciate that sometimes wrong conclusions were drawn, and that he himself perhaps bore some responsibility for those reached on this occasion.

  Russell wasn’t about to argue. The way he saw it, they were bound still to be suspicious. He had offered innocent explanations for the missing minutes with Nedić and his visit to Pograjac, and he could doubtless conjure up another for casting off his shadow. But he couldn’t disprove their alternative explanations, and with people like these you were guilty until proven innocent. Everything else being equal, he could see himself back in a cell.

  But of course it wasn’t. He had given them four of the hated Križari, they were keen to see his article published, and he could tell from Milanković’s face that he was about to be released.

  Russell risked a question: ‘What has happened to Zoran Pograjac?’

  He had just been tried, and found guilty of conspiracy against the state.

  ‘Goli Otok for him, then.’

  ‘He wasn’t that lucky.’

  They met up at Anhalter Station, and joined the waiting crowd on the open platform—the bombed-out roof had still not been replaced. Ströhm’s bag contained the rest of the past payok parcel, Effi’s a bottle of wine which Zarah had passed on from Bill. She had invited them and Lothar, but they were going to a US Army baseball game out in Dahlem. Rosa was carrying her drawing pad and pencils in a satchel over her shoulder, and worrying that the train might be full.

  ‘It’s coming from the depot,’ Ströhm assured her. ‘It’ll be empty.’

  It was, but didn’t take long to fill up. One pregnant woman was left standing, and Effi was about to offer her seat when a Red Army soldier beat her to it, all concern and joviality. This, no doubt unreasonably, made her feel less anxious about taking a trip out into the Soviet zone. None of the people she’d asked had thought there was reason to worry, but there was still a vague sense of placing one’s head between the jaws of a playful lion. But at least with Ströhm there, too, they had some good insurance.

  The train set off, inching out along the viaduct and through the still-neglected yards. As it slowly gathered a modicum of speed, the gapped streets grew increasingly whole, until, in the farthest suburbs, the legacies of war became almost invisible. And once they were out in open country, it felt like another planet entirely; one where grey was unknown, and the greens of spring shone with a shocking intensity.

  It took almost an hour and a half to reach Werder. They emerged from the station into what Effi imagined was Moscow writ small—the square was festooned with posters announcing the Soviet Union’s abolition of poverty, unemployment, racism, and everything else that blighted the unfortunate West. A montage of heroes adorned the building opposite the station, and away to the left a group of boys were playing football underneath a giant portrait of Zhukov. All the shops lining one side had been abandoned, although one now housed the local headquarters of the SED, the Socialist Unity Party. Staffed by people like Ströhm, Effi thought, as they walked past it. A lot of people she knew hated and feared the SED, but a party full of Ströhms seemed nothing to be afraid of. Were they misjudging the Party, or did she not know the man?

  She looked at Ströhm, who was talking to Rosa. The girl really liked him, which was a good sign. And he seemed happier than usual today.

  It didn’t take them long to get out of the town, and on to a narrow road that wound between meadows studded with poppies and burrowed through occasional stands of pine, the wide expanse of the Havel glinting not far to the north. The breeze was full of beautiful fragrances, the sky above almost swarming with birds. Everything seemed so alive.

  Or almost everything. They passed a Soviet cemetery, red stars on every grave. They had their reasons, Effi thought. And after April’s panic they were seeming more reasonable again.

  After eating lunch beneath a gnarled tree on the shore of the Havel, Rosa took out her drawing pad, and sat looking across the lake for quite a while before putting pencil to paper. She wasn’t used to distances, Effi realised. It crossed her mind that if the Russians laid siege to Berlin’s Western sectors, as many feared they would, then she and Rosa could say farewell to days like this.

  A gloomy thought. Ströhm was down on the beach, skimming flat stones across the water. ‘He looks happy,’ Effi thought out loud.

  ‘He’s going to be a father,’ Annaliese said matter-of-factly.

  Effi sp
un around, let out a cry of joy, and threw her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful!’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  She had never seen Annaliese cry before, which considering all they’d been through together, was something of a miracle. ‘And you’re both really happy about it?’ Effi asked, just to be sure.

  ‘Oh yes. The only hard bit was telling Gerd’s parents, because I knew they’d be thinking that my child should have been their grandchild, and it would only remind them that Gerd was dead. But they were wonderful. They said how pleased they were for me, and I’m sure they meant it.’ Annaliese smiled. ‘So I asked them to be godparents, and that made us all cry.’ She looked across at the future father. ‘I haven’t told Gerhard about that bit yet.’

  ‘I don’t suppose he believes in God.’

  ‘No, but then neither do I.’ Annaliese looked up the branches rustling in the breeze. ‘But sometimes I just believe in … I don’t know, in all this life. Inside and out. What else is there?’

  Sasa

  Effi had run into Max Grelling a couple of months earlier, when she and Russell had stopped off at the Honey Trap on Ku’damm for a post-theatre drink. In a beautifully-cut American suit, and with a gorgeous young German blonde on one arm, Grelling had looked the picture of post-war prosperity. Which was hardly surprising. Any member of that shrinking band of Jews still resident in Berlin was entitled to a welter of well-deserved privileges, and a celebrity like Max was entitled to more than most.

  He had done more than survive the war in hiding—many had done that—he had been instrumental in helping hundreds of others to escape abroad. An apprentice draughtsman at a Bauhaus design centre before the Nazis rendered such employment illegal, he had taken a long cool look into the future, and taught himself a skill that he knew would be much in demand—forgery. For every ten German Jews now living in exile, Effi reckoned one had an original Grelling framed and hung on a living-room wall. She and Ali had met him on several occasions during the war, picking up a new set of papers when Aslund, for some reason or other, could not. Effi had liked Grelling instantly, and he had taken more than a liking to the much younger Ali. After the war, when Effi had told him of Ali’s marriage and emigration, he had looked heartbroken for at least ten seconds.

  He had told her and Russell that he was living on Ku’damm, across from a bombed-out restaurant that they all remembered, and the day after meeting with Lisa, it didn’t take Effi long to find his apartment. He seemed pleased to see her, and insisted on making them Turkish coffee, something she loved but hadn’t tasted in almost ten years. Considering the ruins visible through his back window, all but one of the rooms were beautifully furnished, the exception being crammed with fully loaded tea chests.

  ‘Are you leaving?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m off to Palestine. But not for a few months yet.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘a straight question—are you still forging papers?’

  ‘Did the Fuhrer have a foreskin? But I thought you’d gone back to acting.’

  ‘I have. An old friend needs some help.’

  ‘Don’t they always? But I have to tell you, my charity work is over. Forgery is my business now. You know the one thing that Jews going to Palestine have in common?’

  Effi was tempted to say ‘no foreskin’, but that was only the men.

  ‘Nothing, that’s what. I plan to arrive a rich man. The rest can have their kibbutzim—I’ll have a palatial villa halfway up the Via Dolorosa, where I can charge the Christian tourists for a drink of water. That’ll teach them to accuse us of murdering Jesus.’

  Effi couldn’t help laughing.

  ‘So what papers does your friend need?’

  ‘Czechoslovakian documents. Travel permits, exit visas, that sort of thing. We don’t have anything to copy yet. Do you have anything like that?’

  ‘I could probably lay my hands on them. How urgent is this?’

  ‘It isn’t, not at the moment. But if you can start nosing around, I’ll happily give you an advance. In dollars,’ she added, taking a small wad out of her bag.

  ‘I’m tempted,’ he said, ‘but I couldn’t take money from you.’ He thought for a moment, and then reached out a thumb and finger to snag a couple of bills. ‘Okay, maybe a little for expenses.’

  It was Monday evening before Russell got home to his hostel in Trieste, only to find he no longer had the same room. Marko, remembering his original request for one at the back, had taken the opportunity of a long-time guest’s departure, and Russell’s coincidental absence, to shift him and his few possessions. The arrival of a well-to-do fellow-Serb—a former professor of philosophy at Belgrade University, Marko informed Russell with pride—had been purely coincidental.

  Russell was too tired to argue. The room turned out to be smaller, but it boasted a small balcony overlooking a sloping overgrown garden and the rising hillside beyond. And it was quieter. He stood there for a few minutes, enjoying the warm night air, glad not to be in Belgrade.

  Several men had enquired after him during his time away. ‘Suspicious people,’ Marko had added, which didn’t narrow things down that much when it came to Russell’s roster of local acquaintances. They hadn’t been English or American, and the Marko’s rough descriptions didn’t match Shchepkin or Artucci. The Croats from Kozniku’s office came to mind, but Russell was hoping that they were the men he’d shopped to the Yugoslavs. Luciana would presumably know, and he was tempted to go straight to her. But that would piss off Artucci, who for all his amateur theatrics was proving surprisingly useful. So it looked as if another tryst at the deli would be required. It sounded like a New York City romance.

  The bed seemed lumpier in his new room, but Russell still managed nine hours’ sleep. After a bath, he gathered his notes together and ambled down to the San Marco, stopping at one point to sniff the sea and briefly bask in the morning sunshine. Two rolls, two coffees, and he was ready for business.

  He had roughed out his newspaper article on the train back from Belgrade, and the report for Youklis would merely be an expanded version of that. It took him an hour or so to write it out, but he felt in no hurry to hand it over, or indeed to see Youklis at all. Instead he ordered another coffee, and carried it outside. On a table nearby two Russian Jews were discussing Friday’s end to the British Mandate in Palestine, and how the battle would go thereafter. Towards a Jewish victory, Russell assumed. He wondered where the British would send the newly idle troops. These days the Empire was like a body erupting in boils, so they were probably spoilt for choice.

  A shadow crossed his table, and Buzz Dempsey sank into the chair beside him. ‘So this is the place where all the artists hang out,’ he drawled, shielding his eyes against the glare to look inside the café. ‘They don’t all look like faggots,’ he admitted. ‘How’s the coffee?’

  ‘They make it weak for the artists,’ Russell told him.

  ‘Yeah? Well we haven’t got time anyway. Youklis wants to see you.’

  ‘You’re delivering his messages now?’

  Dempsey looked offended. ‘We need you, too. We’ve got another Russian defector.’

  This one, as the American explained on their ride up to the villa, had turned himself in to British border guards the previous evening. He was only a lieutenant, but he seemed intelligent.

  But first there was Youklis to deal with. ‘Where the hell have you been?’ was the shaven-headed CIA man’s first question.

  ‘In Belgrade, remember?’

  ‘You’ve been back almost twenty-four hours.’

  ‘More like twelve. And I’ve been writing my report,’ he added, passing it across.

  Youklis read it through slowly, interspersing grunts of contempt with exasperated sighs. ‘So Pograjac is out of the game,’ he said, looking up and sounding almost surprised.

  ‘One way or another,’ Russell agreed. ‘He’s no use to you any more.’

  ‘Don’t you mean “us”?’

  ‘I work for
the CIC.’

  ‘We’re all in this together, you know.’

  ‘So I’m told. Usually when people use that phrase they actually mean the opposite.’

  Youklis ignored that. ‘This guy Nedić—why the hell did he give you a list of Yugoslav commies who want to cosy up to the Soviets?’

  ‘Because he thought I was working for the Soviets,’ Russell explained patiently.

  ‘And why did he think that?’

  ‘Because I told him so.’

  ‘And where’s the list?’

  ‘The Yugoslavs took it. But they don’t have the code number, so it won’t mean anything to them.’

  ‘And we don’t have the list, so the code number’s useless.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You could have made a copy.’

  ‘They would have found it, and that would have made them suspicious. And according to Nedić, it was published in Red Star last year, so all you need to do is find the right issue.’

  Youklis thought about that for a moment, and decided there wasn’t any point. ‘I can’t see what use we could make of a list like that if we had it. Commies against commies,’ he muttered, a hint of wonder in his voice.

  In Youklis’s world it was Us or Them. Stalin doubtless felt the same.

  ‘You didn’t come back with much, did you?’ the American concluded.

  ‘On the contrary. You now have a good idea of what’s happening between Belgrade and Moscow, and you’ve found out that you need a replacement for Pograjac.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Youklis almost snarled. He rose and stomped out past the arriving Farquhar-Smith, who gave a fine impression of a matador, stepping sharply aside to let the bull pass.

  ‘Idiot,’ Russell muttered after the American.

  ‘Don’t take it too hard,’ Farquhar-Smith reassured him. ‘He’s just got the hump because his latest bunch of freedom fighters were all arrested the moment they crossed the Yugoslav border. Someone must have leaked the names on their documents.’