Stattin Station jr-3

by David Downing

  She smiled and shook her head. 'John, you know as well as I do that they'll arrest me. And I'm not going back to the Gestapo, not voluntarily. The last time was bad enough, and this time they'd want to know where you are. I'd have a choice between telling them, and wasting all the effort I've put into this place, or not telling them, and having them do God knows what to me. I'm not doing it, so forget that idea right now. We're in this together - if you get out then I get out; if you don't, then I don't want to either.'

  'But you're making yourself an accessory,' Russell argued. 'Helping an enemy of the Reich, that's treason. They could execute you. At the very least, they'll put you in Ravensbruck.'

  'I know that. And I'm scared. I expect you are too.'

  'What about your career?' he asked stupidly.

  'I used to enjoy it,' she admitted. 'All of it - the work, the money, being recognised. But not any more. Either it changed or I did. Or both. Whatever it was, it's over now. GPU will have to soldier on without me. And you have to think up some way of getting us out of the country. I know you can. It's the sort of thing you're good at.'

  Russell wasn't so sure, but decided to play along. A discussion of the difficulties might make her see sense. 'All right,' he agreed. 'But we have to look at all the options. One,' he began, tapping his left thumb with his right index finger, 'we can give ourselves up. Two, I can try gate-crashing the American Consulate and you can go back home.' He raised a palm to stifle her protest. 'We're looking at all the options, and that's one of them. The bastards have nothing against you, and if they know where I am, then there's no need for them to question you.'

  'You're not listening to me,' she said quietly.

  'I am,' he insisted. 'I'll try to find a way to get us both out. But if there's no way to do that, then I'd rather go down alone than take you with me.'

  'But you said yourself - there's a good chance they'd just walk into the Consulate and drag you out.'

  'They might. They might not. But I'll take the chance. Effi, I'm not going to let you sacrifice yourself for no good reason.'

  'Love is a good reason.'

  'Okay, but love should be a reason to live. And if I'm going down anyway, I'd feel a lot happier knowing that you weren't. Wouldn't you feel the same way?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Look, let's get back to the options. If we're not giving ourselves up, we're left with two - either spend the war in hiding inside Germany, or find some way of getting out. A life in hiding doesn't look too promising - how would we eat, for a start?'

  'I'd rather get out,' she admitted.

  'Okay, we could try and get across a border. Switzerland is the obvious choice, being neutral, and I have a feeling we could survive in Denmark if we got there. Going east would be suicidal, going west... well, Holland, Belgium and France are all occupied, and we wouldn't be safe until we got to Spain, which is a hell of a long way away. So, Switzerland or Denmark. But how do we get there? We can't use our own papers, and neither of us - as far as I know - has any facility at forging documents.'

  'No,' she agreed, walking into the bedroom and rummaging under the bed. 'But I do have these,' she said, pulling out an apparent pile of brown paper. She spread the paper out, revealing the uniform of an SS Sturmbannfuhrer. 'I also have a Luftwaffe pilot, a Reichfrauenschaft official and a nurse,' she added.

  Russell shook his head in amazement. 'From the wardrobe department?' he guessed.

  'I was spoilt for choice,' she confessed.

  'They might come in useful,' he said, 'but without new papers... Any long distance train journey, there are checks every hour or so. And the moment someone asks for ours, we're done for. We wouldn't get a second chance.'

  'Oh.'

  'We'll have to get some papers from somewhere,' he said. Precisely where was another matter. Zembski's demise, while always unfortunate for Zembski, now also seemed fatal to their own prospects. Russell couldn't look up another Comintern forger in the Berlin telephone directory.

  But he did still have a line to the comrades. Strohm could - and probably would - pass on a request for help.

  Would they help? Russell felt he was owed - it was, after all, his passing of naval secrets to the Soviets which had put the Gestapo on his tail. Then again, Stalin and his NKVD were not known for their nostalgic sense of gratitude. But he would have to try them. There was no one else. Kenyon would want to help, if only to get his hands on Sullivan's papers, but now that the Gestapo had abandoned all pretence of following the diplomatic rules there was nothing he could actually do.

  'I'll go to Strohm,' he said. 'My railwayman,' he added, remembering he had never told Effi the name. 'He may be able to help us, either with getting hold of some papers, or even with getting us out of the country.'

  'That sounds good,' she agreed, deciding to share in his confidence. They had to remain positive, or they were lost. She took a peek round the corner of the window screen. 'There's not going to be an air raid tonight, is there?'

  'Not unless the British have completely lost their senses.'

  'Good. We can wait until morning before turning you into my older brother...'

  'Your brother!?'

  'My husband died some years ago, and I'm much too old for a fancy man.' She thought for a moment. 'We should probably leave something to suggest that you're sleeping in here, just in case we have visitors.'

  'Can't we just bolt the door?'

  'We can at night. But it'll look a bit suspicious during the day.'

  'You're probably right,' he admitted.

  'You know your English saying about clouds having a golden lining?'

  'Silver.'

  'Whichever. Well, I don't have to get up at half past four in the morning. The limousine driver will bang on our door in vain.'

  'The neighbours will be ecstatic.'

  She laughed, the first time she had done so that evening. 'I think I'm ready for bed,' she said. 'Not that I think I'll sleep.'

  She did though, much to Russell's surprise. If the truth were told, she had amazed him almost daily since their first meeting almost eight years before. He lay awake in the dark unfamiliar room, marvelling at her resourcefulness, fearful of what the future held for them both. At least they still had each other. He told himself how lucky he had been to meet and know her, to be loved by her. All in all, he decided, he had enjoyed a fairly charmed forty-two years on the planet. He had grown up in a rich country at peace; he had, unlike so many of his friends, survived the horror of the trenches with both body and mind intact. He had been there in the thick of things after the war, when the world seemed dizzy with the hope of something better. That dream might have died, but he wouldn't have missed the dreaming. He had mostly enjoyed his work; he had her and a wonderful, healthy son.

  The trouble was, he wanted another forty-two years.

  He could just about envisage an escape, but the chances were thin. Better of course than those of the Jews, now that Heydrich and Co. were ordering indicator-free pesticides in vast quantities. Europe's Jews looked doomed. Even if Moscow survived, if the Soviets held out and the Americans entered the war against Germany before the year was out, the Nazis would still have time for a killing spree that sane people would struggle to find imaginable. He thought about the briefcase sitting in the other room, and Sullivan's handwritten postscript to all the proof of corporate perfidy. Would the governments in London, Washington and Moscow be convinced? And even if they were, would they care?

  They woke together, a sign of change if ever there was one. He made them cups of ersatz coffee and told her what he'd found in Sullivan's briefcase. She sat there, staring into space and wondering at her own lack of surprise.

  'We need a newspaper,' Russell announced, once they'd done the usual ablutions and eaten their usual breakfast. 'We need to know if all Berlin is looking for us, or only the Gestapo.'

  She greyed his hair and eyebrows, lined his face, and fixed the small moustache, assuring him that the latter wouldn't fall off if he sneez
ed. 'When we do come to take it off, you'll realise how firmly it's attached,' she added ominously. She also insisted on his wearing gloves and the woolly hat. His head wound was healing faster than he expected, but the tiny lawn in his meadow of hair was something of a giveaway.

  'I'll do myself while you're out,' she said, handing him a pair of keys. 'You remember who you are?'

  'Rolf Vollmar. From Gelsenkirchen,' he said promptly. 'My house was bombed out by the British, and I'm staying with my sister Eva until I'm fully recovered.'

  'Good,' she said. 'Do you know how to get back to the U-Bahn station?'

  'I'm sure I can find it.'

  'Right outside the door. Then left, right and left again.'

  He let himself out and descended the stairs, feeling more than a little nervous. He knew how good Effi was at make-up, how long she had practised the difficult art of using theatrical make-up outside the theatre, but he still found it hard to believe that people would be taken in by his disguise.

  There was no sign of the portierfrau, and no one on the snow-covered street. There were plenty of footprints though, large ones for the workers now ensconced in the factories, small ones for the children now at their school desks. There was also a strong smell of bread being baked, which presumably came from a nearby bakery. The odour was actually enticing, which raised the interesting question of what happened to the loaves between factory and shop.

  He walked towards the first turning, taking care not to slip on a patch of ice - this was no time for breaking a bone. Effi's insistence on sharing whatever fate had in store had meant a lot to him, but in the cold light of morning he found himself wondering how selfish he was being. Should he just take off, take a local train away from Berlin, and try working his way towards a border in short and hopefully inconspicuous leaps? He might get near enough to try a night crossing on foot. It was possible.

  But would it save her? Probably not. They would probably arrest her and torture her. If by some miracle he got out, the Gestapo wouldn't just smile, admit defeat, and move on; that wasn't their style. They'd want someone to punish, and she would be available.

  Or was he just frightened of striking out alone?

  He didn't know. He would try with Strohm, but he wasn't hopeful. He thought Strohm would agree to carry the message, but the chances of a swift reply, let alone a positive one, seemed remote. The most likely outcome was a long and dangerous wait culminating in refusal. Why would the comrades rush to help him? Unlike two years ago, he had nothing to offer them. They weren't interested in the perfidy of American corporations; they took that for granted.

  Reaching the wide Mullerstrasse, he could see the kiosk outside the Leopoldplatz U-Bahn station. The level of traffic reminded him of a prewar Sunday, and only a handful of pedestrians were out on the pavements. A stiff breeze was funnelling down the street, and he instinctively placed two fingers over the false moustache to hold it in place.

  When he reached the kiosk the proprietor, an old man wearing a woolly hat remarkably similar to his own was deep in conversation with what looked like a regular customer. He paused to serve Russell, who remembered at the last moment that the Volkischer Beobachter was unlikely to be the paper of choice in an old Red stronghold like Wedding. He asked for Der Angriff and the Berlin edition of the Frankfurter Zeitung, and thumbed anxiously through them in search of his former face.

  'You won't find the latest news in there,' the regular customer volunteered, causing Russell to look up with something approaching alarm.

  'The Japanese have attacked the Americans,' the old proprietor said mournfully.

  'In Hawaii,' the customer added. 'Their big naval base there.'

  'When?' Russell asked.

  'Yesterday, I think. The man on the radio wasn't too clear. I mean, it's probably the middle of the night there now, but whether it's yesterday night or tomorrow night I couldn't tell you.'

  Russell couldn't help smiling - he had never got the hang of the International Date Line himself. 'But the Americans haven't declared war on us?'

  'Not yet,' the customer said cheerfully.

  Effi was going through the normal motions, bathing in what seemed ample hot water, but feeling far from normal. After drying herself, she carried the wall-mirror into the living room, propped it up on the table, and began turning herself into Eva Vollmar. Dabbing away with the make-up brush, she told herself that anticipating a turn of events was not the same as being ready for one. The very real possibility that she would never see her sister, parents or nephew again was hard to accept. Impossible, in fact.

  She got up abruptly and switched on the People's Radio, hoping for some music to lift her spirits. It was Wagner, who always left her feeling more depressed. She turned him off, and resisted a sudden urge to throw the radio across the room.

  Her transformation complete, she pulled back the screening from the street and courtyard windows, letting the sunlight in. What she could see of the street was empty, and she found herself wondering what she would do if Russell was arrested and didn't come back. Go back home and start clamouring for his release, she supposed.

  And then he hove into view, paper under his arm, ridiculous woolly hat on his head, exhaling clouds of life into the cold air. Watching him walking towards her, she felt love well up inside her.

  'The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbour,' were his first words on entering, before her new appearance left him temporarily speechless.

  'Where's that?' she asked.

  'In Hawaii, in the middle of the Pacific. It's the main American naval base.'

  'So America is in the war now?'

  'It's at war with Japan. They might not want to take on Germany at the same time. I don't know.'

  'Oh,' she said, disappointed. For a moment an end had seemed in sight.

  'But I can't see how they'll be able to keep the two wars separate,' Russell added thoughtfully. He imagined the scene in the Consulate on Unter den Linden. They would be destroying all the papers, preparing themselves for internment. Any lingering chance of help from that quarter was well and truly gone. He wondered whether George Welland would ever get out now.

  'What about us?' Effi asked. 'Are we in the paper?'

  'No, not yet. This evening perhaps, but I think it'll only be me. I don't think Goebbels will be keen to let on that one of his favourite actresses has gone over to the enemy.'

  'But I haven't,' she said instinctively. 'I'm not against Germany. I'm against them.'

  'I know you are,' Russell admitted. 'But they think they are Germany.'

  'They're not.'

  'I know. Look, I've got to try and see Strohm, and it might as well be today. There's no point in waiting.'

  'No,' Effi agreed, hope rising in her eyes.

  Seeing that hope, Russell wished he had something to justify it. How could he convince the comrades to help them?

  It only took him a few minutes to remember Franz Knieriem.

  The sky was clouding over again as he walked down Gartenstrasse, the vast bulk of the Lazarus Hospital rearing up in front of him, the long low buildings of the Stettiner Goods Station lining the other side of the street. Johann's Cafe was sandwiched between a closed cobbler's and a barber's, its steamed-up windows as effective as curtains at concealing the interior. He pushed open the door and walked in.

  The cafe was larger inside than he expected, a long narrow room some four metres wide and over twenty long, with tables for four and eight flanking a single aisle that stretched into the gloomy interior. Almost all were occupied by men, most of them in overalls, a few in suits. Three waitresses were taking and delivering orders, flitting to and fro between the tables and a small counter area halfway down, which was obviously connected by dumb waiter to the floor above or below.

  Russell walked two-thirds of the way down and then retraced his steps. There was no sign of Strohm, and a table near the entrance seemed his safest bet. He took an empty seat on one of the large tables, smiling back at the curious glances of the five
men already sitting there. The food looked less than inviting, but then he hadn't really felt hungry since Kuzorra's revelation. When the waitress - a pinched-face girl of about fourteen - arrived to take his order, he just asked for a bowl of whatever soup was on offer. It was potato and cabbage, but when it came he detected few signs of the latter. He ate slowly, and by the time he was finished the cafe clock read almost twelve-twenty. On his way there he had fretted over whether Strohm would see through his disguise, but with each passing moment it seemed increasingly unlikely that the German-American would show up. The crowd was gradually thinning out, as if this particular shift was drawing to a close.

  He ordered a coffee he didn't want and sat with it, hoping against hope. It was twenty-five to one when his prayers were answered, and Strohm walked in with three other men. Russell tried to catch the other man's eye, and thought he'd succeeded, but Strohm simply looked through him. His disguise was obviously effective.

  The newcomers occupied a four-seater two tables down, Strohm next to the aisle with his back to the door. Now what? Russell asked himself. Should he just sit there and wait, and hope that Strohm noticed him on the way out? What if he didn't?

  No, he had to make the running somehow. Strohm would probably recognise his voice.

  He sipped at his coffee as they ordered, received and began eating their meals, then strode past their table to the counter and bought a packet of the cheapest cigarettes. He then walked slowly back down the aisle, apparently intent on opening the packet, actually willing Strohm to look up and notice him.

  He didn't.

  Russell played his last card, 'accidentally' scattering pfennigs alongside Strohm's table, and then sinking to his knees beside the German-American in order to retrieve them. 'I'm sorry about this,' he said, and thought he could feel the man beside him stiffen. Gathering up his last coin, Russell got to his feet, looked Strohm straight in the eye, and walked back to his table. He knew he'd been recognised. If only for a split second, Strohm's eyes had widened with surprise.