A shadow loomed over them, two men in black uniforms with belts so stiff that they squeaked. Their insignia said they were Untersturmführers, the SS equivalent of lieutenants.
‘Name?’ one of them asked. He had a thick blubbery face with the sort of pop-out eyes that gave the master race a bad name. His companion, by contrast, was a trifle on the weaselish side. Both had one hand on their holsters, as if mimicking each other.
‘Gehrts, Paul.’
‘Papers.’
‘They’re in my uniform. It’s just been taken to be cleaned.’
‘Are you actually injured?’ the second man asked.
‘I was knocked out by shell-blast. The doctor said I have mild concus-sion,’ he added, suddenly remembering as much.
‘Do you have a chit?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Paul admitted.
‘The doctor’s been too busy,’ Effi said, coming up behind the two SS.
‘But I can vouch for this patient.’ She handed Paul his uniform. It still wore the stains of a messy death, but at least the fragments had been brushed away.
‘What is your unit?’ the first man asked.
‘20th Artillery Regiment, 20th Panzergrenadier Division.’
‘Their command base is now in the Zoo Bunker. You will report there immediately.’
‘As soon as I’m dressed, Untersturmführer,’ Paul agreed.
The man looked vaguely dissatisfied, but nodded his head and turned away. He and his partner walked off down the dimly lit corridor in search of other victims.
‘I think I can persuade one of the doctors to write out a chit excusing you further service,’ Effi told Paul. ‘And then you can come back to the flat with us.’
Paul smiled and reached for his trousers. ‘No, I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why ever not? There’s no point in getting yourself killed at this stage.’
‘I know. But I couldn’t duck out on a lie. I owe my comrades better than that. If I decide to take my chances as a deserter I will – there’s an honesty in desertion. But I won’t cheat the system. Not while honest men are still dying.’ He looked her straight in the eye. ‘Does that sound childish to you?’
‘No, just stubborn.’ And she knew there’d be no budging him. There never had been once he’d decided on something. ‘But if you change your mind…’ She told him their address, and was about to add that his presence might offer them some protection when she realised that the opposite would probably be true. If he came between them and the Russians then the latter would probably shoot him. ‘Just come when you can,’ was all she said.
‘Yes,’ Rosa added, offering him a small hand to shake. Taking it, he found himself fighting back tears.
It was around two in the morning when Paul reached the Zoo Bunker flak towers. He had hitched a lift across town in a Ministry of Propaganda lorry – the Reich’s few remaining tanks might be crying out for fuel, but delivering the latest edition of Panzerbär obviously had a higher priority. Skimming a copy by the light of the burning buildings on Tiergarten Strasse, he had discovered that treachery was rife and help on its way.
Despite the sporadic shellfire, tanks and infantry were scattered among the trees outside the Gun Tower, offering an illusion of control which shattered the moment he stepped inside the vast concrete edifice. Here the only deterrent to utter chaos was the degree of overcrowding, which rendered physical movement almost impossible. Every stairway, landing and room of the multi-storey block was occupied by a bewildering mixture of civilians and soldiers, all jostling for enough space in which to lie down.
It took Paul more than half an hour to seek out any semblance of military authority, and when he did the news was bad. The Untersturmführers at the Potsdam Station shelter had got their facts wrong – the remains of the 20th Panzergrenadier Division had been sent to Wannsee Island in the south-western outskirts, and the Russian occupiers of Dahlem and Grunewald now stood between Paul and his former comrades. A weary major suggested he attach himself to the 18th Panzergrenadiers, who were actually on the premises, but Paul’s request for a precise location went unanswered. There were, the major added in explanation, over twenty thousand people crammed into the tower.
Paul went off in search of somewhere to sleep, and eventually found a large enough space to sit down in, provided his chin touched his knees.
As Saturday morning wore on it became increasingly clear to the inhabitants of the Potsdam Station shelter that some sort of crisis was brewing. More and more soldiers were arriving, many of them foreigners serving in the Waffen-SS. They had the air of men expecting to die, and no interest at all in those hoping for reprieve. If death was catching, they seemed like carriers.
‘The doctors are all moving to the Zoo Bunker,’ Annaliese told Effi.
‘And the nurses?’
‘Unofficially, we’ve been told to choose our own fate. We can go along, or stay here, or whatever we want. There’s a group of us going west through the tunnels – one of the soldiers used to work for the S-Bahn and he says he can get us most of the way to Spandau.’
‘What’s so great about Spandau?’
‘Nothing much. Gerd’s parents live out there, so if all else fails I’ll have somewhere to stay. But people say you can still get out of the city from there, and I’d like to leave the Russians behind. The Americans may not be any better, but they can hardly be worse. You should come with me. Both of you.’
‘I have a sister to find’ Effi said automatically. It occurred to her that the U-Bahn tunnel towards Spandau passed under Bismarck Strasse. ‘But can we come with you as far as Knie?’ she asked.
‘Of course. The more the merrier. We’re leaving now, by the way – I only came up to see if you wanted to come. And to say goodbye if you didn’t.’
Effi picked up their suitcase. ‘Let’s go.’
Their route to the platforms took them through the hospital, which was still crowded with wounded.
‘What will happen to them?’ Effi heard herself ask. She already knew the answer.
‘There’s no way of moving them,’ Annaliese confirmed. ‘The Russians will have to look after them.’
They emerged into a wide corridor still plastered with Promi slogans, and descended a staircase lined with identical posters bearing the single word ‘Persevere!’ As they emerged onto the dimly lit platform, Annaliese spotted their group of around a dozen people. There was only one other woman, dressed somewhat incongruously in a long fur coat and hat. Most were middle-aged men in civilian clothes, without weapons or insignia. Minor government officials most likely, the holes still showing in their suit lapels where they’d pinned their badges of loyalty. A couple of Hitlerjugend bearing rifles made up the party; they were busy telling all who would listen that they were just heading back to their Ruhleben barracks.
After checking that everyone was present – the whole business had the air of a school outing, Effi thought – the ex-railway worker led them off the platform and down another staircase. They were still descending when a dull boom reverberated in the distance, then faded into silence. They all stood there listening for several moments, but there were no aftershocks, no sounds of roofs collapsing or soldiers approaching.
The lower of the two S-Bahn platforms was even more crowded, mostly with hungry-looking women and children. The ex-U-Bahn employee had just leapt down to the track bed when a low swishing noise became audible down the south-leading tunnel. It rapidly swelled in volume, rising above the cries of alarm, and exploded from the tunnel mouth in a surging wave of water. The ex-railway worker was knocked off his feet and carried along for at least twenty metres, before managing to fight his way out of the torrent.
All along the platform people were leaping to their feet, frantically gathering children and possessions, and looking round for the nearest exit. Most of the adults seemed to be shouting, most of the children crying. At the mouths of corridors scrums were already underway, as people fought for precedence in their desperation to
get away.
Effi resisted the pull, fixing her eyes on the flooded track bed. The tide was slowing, the water rising, but the platform was a metre high and there seemed no immediate danger. Another few moments and they might have been inside the tunnel, with God only knew what results, but for now the platform seemed a much safer bet than the struggle on the stairs.
Rosa was standing beside her, staring open-mouthed at the dark, swirling water. As the tumult around the stairs grew less, they could both hear the screams of those trapped in the tunnels.
It was hot in the Zoo tower, and Paul awoke streaming with sweat from a few hours of miserable sleep. His body was stiff as a board, and there was a sharp pain in his back where the SS officer’s machine pistol had pressed against it. He forced himself painfully to his feet, and watched the bodies around him expand into the few square centimetres he had relinquished.
The smells of sweat, shit and blood – the latter emanating from the continuous activities of the operating theatre on the ground floor – permeated the entire structure, and the loudly whirring air extractors seemed incapable of shifting them. What they did do, was force everyone to shout above them, which only exacerbated the overriding sense of barely suppressed hysteria.
It was, Paul thought, as if they’d all been placed in a huge coffin. The lid was on, with only the burial to look forward to.
He had to get out.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he’d hardly eaten since the previous morning. There had to be food somewhere in the tower, or people would be even more agitated. He would seek it out, and maybe stumble across the 18th Panzergrenadiers in the process.
He eventually found the canteen he had frequented as a flakhelfer, and joined the long queue. There was only wassersuppe on offer, but it would improve the taste in his mouth. There was even a table to sit at, and after emptying the tin mug he laid his forehead on his folded arms and closed his eyes.
But sleep wouldn’t come. On first joining the army he’d slept through anything quieter than a katyusha barrage, but that knack, like so much else, had eventually deserted him.
Two seats down a young soldier with a Rhenish accent was insisting that Wenck’s Army could only be hours away. No one in his group disputed this, although some comrades were more inclined to put their faith in the imminent appearance of the long-anticipated wonder weapons. One corporal had heard rumours of bombs that could destroy whole cities, and of their intended use against London this coming weekend. When another man argued that Moscow should be the target, the corporal could only agree with him. But, sad to say, the Soviet capital was temporarily out of range.
Across the table a young army captain almost choked on his wassersuppe. ‘Bunch of fools,’ he spluttered in explanation when Paul caught his eye. The young soldiers seemed about to answer back, but were probably inhibited by the Knight’s Cross at their critic’s throat. Instead they rose in unison and made their way out, muttering indignantly amongst themselves.
Another group arrived to take their place, and were soon broadcasting their own rumours. Someone had heard that the Führer was getting married that day, to an actress that nobody had heard of. And that the actress was to going to feature on a new twenty mark note, dressed as a milkmaid.
The captain just shook his head at this one, and got up to leave. Paul thought about following suit, but where was there to go? Here he could stretch out his legs, and there was something comforting in listening to his fellow soldiers’ conversations, no matter how moronic they were.
The ones to his right were discussing the benefits of life in the flak towers. For one thing they were safe from shellfire; for another they were safe from the SS squads now combing the city for deserters. Many civilians were putting out white flags to mollify the approaching Russians, but some were acting too soon, and drawing down the wrath of the SS. Buildings had been emptied, and all their inhabitants shot.
Paul’s thoughts turned to Werner, and the red-headed Obersturmführer who had hanged him. If they both survived the war he would seek some kind of reckoning. The boy deserved a better epitaph.
He felt depression settling over him. Meeting Effi had lifted his heart, but the effect was wearing off. He found himself thinking about Madeleine, and their few weeks together. They’d shared their innermost secrets, even talked of marriage after the war, but their sexual relationship had never gone beyond passionate fumblings in the darkened Tiergarten. She had died in this building, and the chances seemed good that he would too.
He looked round the packed room and told himself to get a grip. With this many people and this much confusion there had to be some way out.
It was after five in the afternoon when Effi and Rosa climbed the staircases up to the shelter. After the initial rush the water had risen steadily for more than an hour, peaking at a point only a few centimetres beneath the rim of the platform. And then it had slowly begun to recede.
She had spent several hours pulling shocked and frightened people from the water. Most had needed no more help than that, and were soon on their way, heading up the stairs in search of sustenance and dry clothes. She reeled in the first few corpses that drifted by, but they appeared at such distressingly frequent intervals that she started letting them go. Most were children, and she ached at the thought that Rosa could well have been one of them.
Back in the shelter the SS presence seemed even more foreboding. The glint of guns was everywhere, and the children were all in Hitlerjugend uniforms. They found Annaliese in their old room, writing out a note. ‘Thank God you’re safe,’ she said when she saw them. ‘Where on earth have you been?’
As Effi told their story, she noticed the bruises on her friend’s face and arms.
‘I fell on the stairs,’ Annaliese explained. ‘Others were not so lucky,’ she added. ‘At least one child was trampled. It was insane.’ She grimaced. ‘I say that, and I was as bad as all the others.’ She managed a rueful smile. ‘I assumed you were right behind me. Anyway, I’ve given up on Spandau. There’s a last transport leaving for the Zoo Bunker when it gets dark, so I thought I might as well join it. Why don’t you come?’
‘Okay,’ Effi said without hesitation. The bunker at the Zoo towers might be terrible, but it could hardly be worse than this.
They spent the next couple of hours in a room close to the entrance. The shelter was less crowded than it had been – many long-term residents had concluded that the outside world, with all its Russian shells and soldiers, offered a better chance of survival than a last-ditch SS fortress. And if Effi was not mistaken, some of the SS felt the same. As she and Rosa waited to leave, several young supermen stopped to stroke the girl’s hair and wish them good luck, tears in their pure blue eyes.
The transport was late arriving, and it was almost nine when the call came to climb the stairs. Effi hadn’t breathed any outside air for several days, and the stars sprinkled above the shelter entrance gave her reason to smile. Potsdamerplatz, by contrast, was a wilderness of rubble. Since their vigil earlier in the week, the last facades had been torn away, and what remained bore an eerie resemblance to an ancient ring of stones.
Their lorry was pumping dark exhaust, its tailgate lowered to allow them aboard. There were fifteen of them, mostly medical staff that Effi recognised, with only a couple of hangers-on. Most seemed in high spirits, as if they were heading off on an adventure, rather than driving through shell-fire to another bastion of useless resistance.
In fact, there seemed to be a lull in the shelling. As they drove south on Potsdamer Strasse a full moon rose through the ruins behind them, and the city seemed more at peace than it had for weeks. They rattled over the hump-backed Potsdamer Bridge and turned right along the southern bank of the Landwehrkanal. Through the open back of the lorry Effi saw moonlight dancing on the gently rippling water, and the sudden eruption of flames from a building on the north bank. Another explosion followed, this one further back.
The lorry’s engine started to cough. It limped o
n a few more metres and then suddenly jerked to a halt.
The driver was still fending off complaints when shells began landing all around them. Everyone scrambled out of the lorry, most seeking cover between the wheels. Others crammed themselves into the nearest convenient doorway, leaving Effi, Annaliese and Rosa running for the shelter of an alley. They had only just reached it when a shell exploded behind them with an enormous ‘whumpf’, and hurried them on like a strong gust of wind. Effi turned to see another building ablaze on the far side of the canal, and a shell explode in the shallow water, sending up a huge spout for the moon to burnish. A shower of drops landed all around them.
‘Let’s find somewhere better,’ Annaliese insisted, already on her way. Effi went after her, Rosa’s hand held tight in her own.
Another shell landed behind them, and this time there were human screams as well. The entrance to the alley was a wall of flames.
They emerged into a small and apparently deserted mews. A garage with open doors looked inviting, but offered no real protection. They hurried on down the narrow street, Effi conscious that they were heading south, and probably towards the Russians. The shell-fire seemed to have stopped, and she was wondering whether they should walk back towards the canal, or at least look for a road leading west, when she saw the car peeking out of its garage.
It was a black Hanomag, like the one that John had owned, the one in which he’d taught her to drive. She told Annaliese to wait, put down the suitcase, and went to inspect it. It had diplomatic plates, which was hardly surprising in an area known for its embassies.
‘You don’t suppose it has any petrol?’ Annaliese asked at her shoulder.
‘We have no key,’ Effi reminded her. Squeezing in alongside the driver’s door, she lowered the handle. It opened, but there the miracles ceased. There was nothing in the ignition.
Effi’s face fell, but Annaliese was smiling. ‘Gerd was a mechanic,’ she said impatiently. ‘I can start a car without a key if there’s any fuel in its tank. Here are some matches. Have a look at the gauge.’
Potsdam Station jr-4 Page 29