Stattin Station jr-3

by David Downing

  'Let me look at it.'

  'There's no need...'

  'Sit down!'

  He did as he was told, and she began unwinding the bandage.

  'How's the filming going?' he asked.

  'I don't want to talk about it. Not until I've had a drink anyway. And I'm afraid I still haven't got to the shops; we'll have to eat out.' The bandage was off, and the wound seemed clean enough. She felt relieved, but also frightened at the closeness of the shave. 'And stop trying to change the subject. Who was it shot you? And why?'

  'The Czech Resistance.'

  'Well, they're rotten shots. This doesn't look too bad.'

  'The worst bit is having to explain the bandage to everyone I meet.'

  She smiled in spite of herself, and went into the bathroom. 'One of those woolly ski caps we bought in Innsbruck would cover it up,' she said, rifling through the medicine cabinet.

  'Yes. And add a hint of sartorial joie de vivre to Ribbentrop's press conferences.'

  She emerged with a new dressing. 'Now tell me the whole story.'

  He gave her a detailed precis of his twelve hours in Prague.

  'You were lucky,' she said when he was finished. 'And I don't just mean with the bullet.'

  'Not that lucky. Canaris made the Swiss arrangement conditional on my delivering the message.'

  'So that's off,' she said, failing to hide her disappointment.

  'Not necessarily,' Russell told her. 'I have another idea.'

  At ten the following morning he was ringing the doorbell at the American Consulate. A sprinkling of snow had fallen overnight, and both Kenyon and Dallin were waiting in Russian-style overcoats. The three of them walked across Pariser Platz, past the Brandenburg Gate and into the festive-looking Tiergarten.

  'Any news?' Russell asked, as three fighters flew past a half-kilometre or so to the north. The BBC news of the previous evening had reported 'rising tension' in the Far East, but nothing more specific.

  'No,' Kenyon told him, pausing to light one of his cigarettes. 'But we're still thinking days rather than weeks.'

  'What about you,' Dallin asked. 'Have you seen Knieriem yet?'

  'I tried,' Russell lied. 'I went round to his house last night, and there were two official cars outside. I think Herr Knieriem has thrown in his lot with the Nazis.'

  'That doesn't necessarily follow,' Dallin insisted. 'He could be...'

  'I know he could,' Russell interjected. 'But it didn't seem like the right moment to find out.'

  They all fell silent as a well-wrapped nanny walked by with her two charges, one still in a pram, the other clasping a snowball and clearly itching to throw it.

  'So when are you going back?' Dallin asked, looking warily over his shoulder.

  'Maybe tonight, but that's not what I wanted to see you about.' He stopped and turned to Kenyon. 'I think I may know where those documents are, the ones Sullivan was going to give us.'

  'Where?' Kenyon asked, his eyes lighting up.

  Russell ignored the question and turned to Dallin. 'But I need something from you in exchange,' he told the Intelligence man. 'Remember the idea of setting me up in Switzerland as a channel between you and the Abwehr, and the job I was supposed to do in Prague for Canaris as proof of my usefulness and loyalty? Well, the SD torpedoed the job, and Canaris is probably less fond of me than he was. So I need you to push my case from your end, tell Canaris how useful it would be for you and him to have me there in Switzerland.'

  Kenyon was smiling, Dallin frowning and shaking his head. 'I can't do a deal like that,' the latter said.

  'Of course you can. You liked the idea when I first told you about it, and it's in your government's interest - a channel to the Abwehr would be useful, particularly if Canaris falls out even further with Heydrich. And it's in the Admiral's interests too. All you have to do is insist that I'm the man you want as the go-between. Put it in writing, and I'll deliver it. What could that cost you?'

  'And when do you think you can recover Sullivan's papers?' Kenyon asked. Away in the distance a train was rumbling across the Spree bridge outside Bellevue Station.

  Russell worked through a mental timetable. 'Saturday,' he suggested. 'Maybe Sunday.'

  'I don't know,' Dallin said stubbornly.

  As Russell had hoped, the senior diplomat was not about to be denied. 'We'll work something out,' Kenyon assured him.

  Dropping in at the Adlon to check for messages, Russell found most of the foreign press corps strewn around the bar like passengers waiting for a train. Some had even taken the precaution of bringing small suitcases with them, just in case. Several were enjoying a late and decidedly alcoholic breakfast.

  Around eleven forty-five they set off en masse for the Foreign Ministry, rather in the manner of schoolboys and girls resenting a disagreeable outing. The briefing proved even less enlightening than usual - with the battles in Russia and North Africa apparently still raging, all von Stumm wanted to talk about was a heinous attack by terrorists on a German officer in Paris. For once, Russell thought, the German spokesman might have got his priorities right, albeit not in the way he intended. As finite German power was spread ever more thinly across an expanding empire, an ever-swelling tide of resistance seemed inevitable.

  The briefing concluded in the traditional way, with one of the Americans asking a question that the Germans either wouldn't or couldn't answer. 'Would the spokesman like to comment on Turkey's decision to accept lend-lease aid from the United States?' Ralph Morrison asked. Von Stumm looked at the table, said for the hundredth time that year that this particular question was 'not worthy of an answer', and made the usual abrupt exit, sucking minions into his wake as he swept from the chamber. There was a brief and thoroughly sarcastic ripple of applause.

  The press corps adjourned to the Press Club for a long and highly alcoholic lunch, before attending their second circus of the day at Goebbels' Big Top. One of the Americans was leaving for Switzerland soon thereafter, and a farewell party had been planned for the station platform. Russell didn't know the man well, but joined his drunken colleagues in their stumbling progress to the nearby Potsdam Station. Out on the platform, the party turned into a multinational singsong, with a fine rendition of 'Lili Marlene' sandwiched between equally melodic takes on 'Swanee River' and 'Pennies from Heaven'. Several colleagues had come armed with rolls containing real sausage for the traveller, and insisted that their later consumption be suitably ostentatious - if at all possible, sizable chunks of meat should be casually jettisoned in front of watching Germans.

  The whistles finally blew, and as the train moved off into the darkness the journalists all waved white handkerchiefs at their departing colleague. It was quite ridiculous, and annoyingly moving.

  After sobering himself up with a strong and thoroughly disgusting coffee at the station buffet, Russell descended the steps to the U-Bahn platforms. The normal rush hours were over, but the trains were still packed, and he stood all the way to Alexander Platz, where he changed lines. The Gesundbrunnen train was almost as full, but a seat opened up after a couple of stops. He was tired, he realised, both physically and mentally. Tired of waiting for some sort of axe to fall.

  Emerging from the U-Bahn terminus, he turned down Behmstrasse. Ahead of him, the dark rectangle of Hertha's Plumpe Stadium was dimly silhouetted against the clear night sky. The locomotive driver Walter Metza lived a couple of streets to the north, in one of the old apartment blocks that housed many of the local Reichsbahn workers, and Russell found the street without much difficulty. This was not the sort of area the Gestapo would visit on foot, but for Metza's sake Russell was careful to make sure that he wasn't being followed.

  The woman who answered the door was initially suspicious, but managed a thin smile of welcome when he explained who he was, and swiftly ushered him inside. She was a tallish blonde in her early thirties, with one of those plain faces that would sometimes slip into beauty. As she shut the door Russell noticed a Reichspost cap hanging behind it. />
  'I'm his wife,' she said, squeezing past him. 'Ute.' She opened another door. 'Walter's in here.'

  Metza was in an armchair, with one heavily strapped leg resting on a cushioned upright chair. The left side of his face was a mass of healing lesions, and the hair on that side of his head was still growing back. He was at least ten years older than his wife, but the two young girls examining Russell with great curiosity clearly belonged to both of them - the older one looked like him, the younger one like her. The wife quickly shooed the two girls into the other room and shut the door behind the three of them.

  Russell explained who he was, who he worked for, and how he was trying to build up a picture of what was really happening in Russia before the outbreak of German-American hostilities caused his deportation. Metza nodded his understanding, and asked for reassurance that his name would not be mentioned.

  'No. And I'll make damn sure that no one could deduce my source from reading the story.'

  'Then fire away.'

  Russell began running through the questions he had prepared. The driver answered them in a slow but confident voice, often thinking for several moments before speaking. He was, Russell guessed, one of the many workers who had benefited from the KPD's sponsorship of adult education classes in the late 1920s.

  Metza had mostly been employed on the main line to Moscow through Brest, Minsk and Smolensk, which, as Russell knew, was the principal supply route for Army Group Centre. The whole line had needed re-gauging for German locomotives and rolling stock, the driver explained, and most of it had been. The continued use of Russian locomotives and rolling stock complicated matters, but those problems were proving surmountable. Others were not. Every Reichsbahn district manager in Germany had volunteered his worst workers for service in the East, and Reichsbahn equipment had proved utterly inadequate for the conditions. 'The Soviets have their steam pipes inside the boiler on their locomotives, so that they do not freeze up,' Metza explained. 'Ours are outside, and of course they do. And that's just one of the differences. Their tenders carry more water, so their water towers are further apart, too far apart for ours. There are so many problems like that. Our trains are just not built for Russian conditions.'

  And then there were the partisans. 'At first we thought, "Ah, this is just a small nuisance that we'll have to get used to", but the attacks grew more frequent very quickly, and now they are a major problem. Lines are blown up, bridges too - there are so many long stretches of track running through empty forests. Not that the partisans stick to the countryside - sabotage attacks are common in cities like Minsk and Smolensk.'

  'I know it's an impossible question,' Russell said, 'but how much is the Army getting of what it needs? Are there just difficulties, or is there a real supply crisis?'

  Metza thought about that for a moment, idly scratching at his side where less visible injuries were presumably itching. 'In early November, when I was wounded, there were serious difficulties. And from what comrades have told me since then, I would guess that those difficulties have turned into a real crisis. Even three weeks ago the yards in Brest and Baranovichi were full of supplies which couldn't be moved, and from what I hear the blockages are now backed up as far as Warsaw.'

  'How were you wounded?' Russell asked out of curiosity.

  'A partisan attack.' He had seen the blown bridge in time to stop, but his stationary train had immediately come under fire. 'And not just from rifles. It was a mortar that got me. It landed in the tender.' Metza smiled ruefully. 'They'd obviously fired a few before we arrived to get the range.' He flexed his leg in remembrance. 'Nothing that won't heal. I was lucky. My fireman was killed outright, and about twenty others. If a troop train hadn't pulled up behind us it would have been a lot worse.'

  'How do you feel about going back?'

  'Not good. I mean, no one wants to die or get maimed in a good cause, and our cause stinks. I was a member of the Party before the Nazis came to power, and I'm still a communist at heart. Why would I want to see the Soviet Union destroyed? But what choice do I have, a married man with two daughters? We lost in '33, and we'll have to keep paying the price until someone else brings the bastard down.'

  Russell had more specific questions about fuel and food supplies, but Metza couldn't help him - 'All the people at the forward depots ever complained about was the lack of winter clothing.' The driver did have more information about the Jews. Special SS squads called einsatzgruppen were combing the occupied territories, and rumour had it that Jews in small villages and towns were simply being shot. In big cities like Minsk they were only being forced into the ghettoes. There were no large-scale transports, either east or west, although that might be down to a simple shortage of trains.

  Metza was visibly tiring, although he managed a smile when a sudden burst of high-pitched laughter erupted in the other room. Russell put his notebook away, and got to his feet. 'I have a favour to ask. I need to talk to Gerhard Strohm, and I have no way of contacting him. I know he works in the Stettin Station yards but it's always been him getting in touch with me, not the other way round. Could you get word to him, tell him I need to speak to him? It is urgent.'

  The driver nodded. 'I can do that. But not until the morning.'

  'That'll do. Tell him he can telephone me tomorrow evening, any time after six.'

  They shook hands, and Russell let himself out. As he steered his way back through the blackout to the U-Bahn station, he imagined the mother and daughters reoccupying the room he had just vacated, pushing back the war with their laughter.

  Effi usually left work early on a Friday, and today it was even earlier - a sudden row between director and writer had been won by the former, necessitating a weekend rewrite and the postponement of shooting. John being already home was a nice surprise; the news that they had to stay in and wait for a call from his railwayman was most definitely not, particularly since the call itself would probably result in her spending the rest of the evening alone. Seeing her disappointment, Russell suggested they went out immediately for an early dinner. If Strohm called in the meantime, he would doubtless call again.

  As it happened, the German-American called ten minutes after their return. 'Klaus, I heard you were trying to reach me.'

  'Yes. Thanks for calling. There's another game tonight at Number 21. Same time - 8.30. Can you make it?'

  There was a moment's pause. 'Yes, I can,' Strohm said. He was, Russell guessed, somewhat mystified by the request for a meeting.

  Half an hour later he left Effi curled up on the sofa and walked down to Savignyplatz. This time a westbound train drew in almost instantly, and he arrived at Westkreuz with almost half an hour to spare. The sky was as clear as yesterday's, the temperature probably lower, and after enduring twenty minutes of the chilling breeze the only way he could find to warm himself was by stamping up and down the steps between the station's two levels.

  At least Strohm was on time. They went through the same charade as before, leaving the station, returning, and retreating to the end of a platform.

  'I need your help,' Russell told the other man. He explained about Sullivan - the putative deal, the arrest and murder, the still-missing papers. 'He must have put them in the left luggage. He was coming from that direction when I saw him, but I didn't make the connection until his wife told me he was carrying a briefcase. I've got a description and I need to get in there and look for it. Are there any comrades working there who can let me in? Or someone else who'll take a bribe to look the other way?'

  'I don't know,' Strohm said. 'I suppose you've thought of just turning up and saying you lost the ticket?'

  'I have. But Sullivan's initials are on the briefcase, and I have no papers to prove that I'm him, even if I wanted to try. And if either the police or Sullivan's murderers have a similar brainwave about the left luggage, they'll end up getting my description from whomever I talk to, which I definitely don't want. No, in this instance, the illegal way seems the safest way. I want whoever helps me to have a person
al motive for keeping quiet. Loyalty to the cause would be best. I mean, think about it. These papers will prove that American and German capitalists are determined to carry on sharing out profits while Germans and American workers are dying on the battlefields. It's perfect propaganda because it's so fucking true.' Strohm grunted. 'I'll see what I can do. When can I call you?'

  'Tomorrow between five and seven?'

  'All right. If I can arrange something I'll give you a time and day for a movie, and we'll meet at Stettin Station. If I can't I'll ask for Wolfgang, and you can tell me I've got the wrong number.'

  Back home, Russell found Effi in bed, almost asleep. 'Sorry,' she said. 'It's these five o'clock starts. Come and hold me.'

  He did for ten minutes or so, finally disentangling himself when her breathing grew heavier. His brain seemed to be humming with possibilities, most of them dire, and listening to the nine o'clock news on the BBC engendered boredom without inducing calm. He wondered whether he should pack. He probably should, but what? His books were mostly still in boxes, and his only other prized possession was an unusable car. Clothes, he supposed, but how many of those would he need? Was he supposed to take all his underwear into exile?

  Rummaging through a drawer he came across a collection of Paul's pictures from his first school, and one in particular - a collection of stick- figured Hertha Berlin players wildly celebrating a goal - caught his eye. On impulse he folded it up and tucked it into his wallet. A photograph of Effi was already there, a head and shoulders shot that Thomas had taken during a boating day on the Havel four, five years ago. Her face was turned towards the camera, an impish smile warring with the seriousness in her eyes. Thomas had caught both the child and the adult, which was no mean feat.

  Russell picked up the phone and called his ex-brother-in-law. 'How are things?' he asked, once Thomas had picked up.

  'As good as can be expected. You're not out on the town, then?'

  'No, Effi's gone to bed. Early mornings and all that.'

  'Ah.'

  Why had he rung? Russell didn't really know. 'I'm just rummaging through my worldly possessions, wondering what to pack,' he said. 'It could be any day now, and, well, if anything should happen to Ilse and Matthias, you will...'