Stattin Station jr-3

by David Downing

  Back on the street, he managed to walk twenty metres before virtually exploding with laughter. He was pummelling an adjacent wall with glee when a uniformed man loomed out of the darkness and shone a torch in his face.

  'Oh, pardon me,' the man stuttered, extinguishing his torch and hurrying away in the darkness. There were few more disturbing sights than a hysterical Sturmbannfuhrer.

  Saturday morning dawned clear and cold. The several centimetres of overnight snow showed no sign of succumbing to the primrose-coloured sun, and children too young for the Jungvolk were happily hurling balls of the stuff at each other. Their triumphant peals of laughter and joyous squeals of dismay drifted up from the street like echoes from another world.

  Effi insisted on breakfast in bed, but the urge to get up soon proved irresistible. While she agonised over what they should take, he wrote an account of what Knieriem had inadvertently told him, and added those sheets to the ones from Sullivan's briefcase. It was still only hearsay, but it seemed more authoritative in black and white. That done, he went out and reconnoitred the route they would take that evening. The thought of getting lost in the dark and missing their appointment was too dreadful to contemplate.

  Returning an hour and a half later, he found Effi content to leave almost everything behind. Neither of them could make up their mind about the SS uniform, but its bulk eventually told against it. They also decided to leave most of Effi's cash in its hiding place under the floorboards - having that much money on them would rouse suspicion in even the dimmest official. In the end they packed only the slim sheaf of papers, enough food for a few meals and a single change of clothing for each of them. It didn't seem much to be leaving Berlin with, particularly if one was a successful film actress, and Russell lamented Effi's probable loss of a lifetime's earnings.

  'I'll get most of it back after the war,' she said. 'Zarah and I opened an account in her name about a year ago, and I've moved a lot of my savings into that.'

  Russell shook his head. 'Please don't tell me you've been taking flying lessons, and that there's an aeroplane waiting somewhere nearby.'

  'Unfortunately not.'

  The afternoon dragged on, the sun finally disappearing behind the school on the next street. They sat by the window with the blackout screens pulled back, watching the city slowly darken as the minutes ticked by. As the time for leaving approached, a pale light on the roofs opposite reflected the rising of the moon. Would that help or hinder their escape, Russell wondered. There was no way of knowing.

  They left at a quarter past six. Effi had seen no point in taking the keys to the apartment, but Russell thought it far from certain that the comrades would agree to help them. No promises had yet been made. All they had was a meeting. They might be back in a couple of hours.

  The walk took them past block after block of run-down apartments, past the bakery that filled the air with its nostalgic odours, past still-humming electrical works and an abandoned-looking chocolate factory. By the time they reached Gesundbrunnen Station a three-quarter moon was hanging over the Plumpe and, as they crossed the bridge overlooking the locomotive roundhouse, the snow-covered roofs to the east stretched away in a jumble of luminescence.

  The Kaiser Bar was huddled in deep shadow on the eastern side of Schwedter Strasse. The interior looked as if it hadn't been decorated since before the first war, and the old, leather-lined booths that stretched along one wall were as faded and worn as the only customers - two old men playing dominoes at a table on the other side of the room. Pride of place behind the sparse-looking bar belonged to a group photograph of Hertha's championship-winning team of 1931.

  The middle-aged man behind the bar wished them welcome in a less than welcoming tone.

  'We're here to see Rainer,' Russell told him.

  After lifting an eyebrow in apparent surprise, the barman disappeared through a door at the back. He re-emerged only seconds later with finger beckoning.

  Walking through, Russell and Effi found themselves in a large windowless room. There was a second door on the far side, and most of the available floor-space was occupied by upright wooden chairs in various states of decrepitude. A Party meeting room, Russell assumed. Like the Party, it had seen better days.

  Two men were waiting for them. One was about Russell's age, a burly, balding man with worn hands and a leathery face that had spent most of its days outdoors. The other was probably in his early twenties, wiry and snub-nosed with a shock of dark hair. Given Strohm's job and known connections, it seemed fairly certain that both were Reichsbahn employees.

  The older man invited them to sit. 'This is John Russell,' he said, as if others were present who needed to know. 'And this is Effi Koenen,' the slightest edge of distaste colouring his intonation. 'An excellent disguise,' he added.

  'That was the intention,' she said coldly.

  Russell gave her a warning glance.

  'I believe you have something for us,' the man said to him.

  'And you are?' Russell asked.

  The man offered a thin smile. 'You know whom I represent. You don't need a name.'

  Russell shrugged, removed the folded sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket, and handed it over.

  The man read it through twice, and reached the same conclusion as Effi. 'You could have made this up.'

  'I could,' Russell agreed. 'But I didn't.'

  'Why would this official reveal this information to you? Was it for money?'

  Russell told the whole story - its American genesis, his visit to Knieriem in SS guise, the trick he had played on the ministry official.

  'Very ingenious,' the other man responded, with the air of someone who considered ingenuity a bourgeois affectation.

  Their fate was hanging in the balance. 'Not really,' Russell told him with a self-deprecating smile. 'Luckily for me, the man was a fool. But the information is genuine. If it were false, I would not be staking my future on it.'

  The older man was clearly torn. His own future might also be resting on the validity of Russell's report.

  'You have nothing to lose by helping us,' Russell argued. 'Even if I have made all of this up - which I haven't - you would gain nothing by sending us back into the arms of the Gestapo. On the contrary, you know and I know that sooner or later we would talk, and more comrades would be lost.'

  'A dangerous argument,' the man said, reaching for his pocket. Russell half expected a gun to appear in his hand, but it was only a wodge of pipe tobacco.

  'This is ridiculous,' Effi interjected. 'We are all enemies of the Nazis. We should be helping each other. Those papers will help the Soviet Union.' 'I saw you in Sturmfront,' the man said.

  She gave him an incredulous look, then sighed. In that film her husband had been beaten to death by communists. 'I was just playing a role,' she said. 'I didn't write it.'

  'Some roles should be refused.'

  'I didn't know that then. I'm afraid it takes some people longer than others to see what is happening.'

  He smiled. 'You were very convincing. You still are. And you are right,' he said, turning to Russell, 'your departure from Berlin is in everyone's interest.'

  'What has been arranged?' Russell asked.

  'You are travelling to Stettin tonight.'

  Russell felt relieved, but didn't want to make it too obvious. 'And when we get there?' A ship, he guessed. Sweden, with any luck.

  'You will be taken care of. I know nothing more.'

  'What time do we go?'

  The man looked at his watch. 'The train is scheduled to leave at ten, but the sooner you get on board the better. The comrade here' - he gestured towards the younger man - 'will take you across.'

  They all stood up, and the older man shook hands with both of them. Out on the moonlit Schwedter Strasse a lorry was disappearing in the direction of the city centre, but otherwise the road was clear. The open gates to the Gesundbrunnen goods yard were almost opposite the Kaiser Bar and, as they followed the young man through them, the sounds of s
hunting in the sidings beyond were suddenly audible. Away to the south several planes were crossing the moonlit sky, heading west.

  'What happens if there's an air raid?' Russell asked.

  'That depends,' the young man said, but failed to elucidate.

  They walked down the side of a seemingly endless goods shed, worked their way round its northern end and started out across the fan of sidings. The yard lights were on, but hardly bright enough to compete with the moonlight. After crossing the tracks ahead of several lines of open wagons, the young man led them into the gap between two trains of covered vans. 'You're in luck,' he told them. 'The last lot travelled in an empty ore wagon. They'd have been really cold by the time they reached Stettin.'

  They were only three boxcars from the end when he stopped, grabbed hold of a rail with one hand, clambered up two steps, and pulled the sliding door open with the other. Jumping back down, he explained that the vans had brought paper from the Stettin mills, and were going back empty. 'The guard knows you're on board,' he told them, 'but the loco crew doesn't. When you get to Stettin, just stay where you are and wait for the guard.' He took the heavy bag from Russell's hand, swung it onto the floor of the boxcar, and unexpectedly offered Effi a helping hand. She took it, and gave him a smile of thanks once she was aboard. Russell followed her up and turned to say goodbye, but the young man had already left. There was nothing to see inside the van, so he pulled the door shut, and they helped each other blindly to the floor.

  It had to be at least half-past seven. They had two and a half hours to wait.

  'Who'd have guessed it would end like this,' Effi said after a minute or so.

  'My grandmother once told me I'd come to a bad end,' Russell admitted. He hadn't remembered that in years - his father's mother had died when he was eight years old.

  'What had you done?' Effi asked.

  'I ate the cherries off the top of a trifle.'

  Her laugh reverberated round the empty van, and he joined in.

  'Let's talk about our childhoods,' she suggested eventually, and they did, chattering the time away with what seemed like reminiscences from two other people's lives. Russell was thinking that at least two hours had passed when the floor shook beneath them - a locomotive was being attached to the front of the train. Only seconds later air raid sirens began to wail not far away.

  What should they do? Yards like this were a prime target, but the British rarely hit one of those. Would the train leave in the middle of an air raid? If so, they couldn't afford to get off. But then, why wasn't it moving?

  For twenty minutes or more nothing happened, no bombs, no movement. Then suddenly there was an enormous bang, and the van rocked on its wheels, as if an army of men had given it a great push. Russell pulled the door open just in time to see another bomb explode, this one beyond the line of the goods sheds, and probably Schwedter Strasse as well. The orange flash lasted only a second, and a column of debris rose up, glittering in the moonlight. At that moment the train clanked into motion, jerking Russell backwards and almost out of the open doorway. He recovered his balance and tugged it shut as two other bombs exploded in quick succession away to his left.

  The train quickly gathered speed, violently rolling its way through the switches, as if the driver's only concern was to get it out of Berlin. The bombing continued, but none fell as close again, and the sound of the explosions soon began to fade. They lay entwined on the dusty floor, their bodies prey to each jolt of the wheels, their minds still straining to cope with the fact of leaving Berlin.

  The fan in the mirror

  It took the train almost nine hours to cover the hundred and twenty kilometres between Berlin and the port city of Stettin. The breakneck pace of their initial escape from the RAF's attentions soon gave way to slow and desultory progress across the rolling Pomeranian fields, with long, frequent and mostly inexplicable stops in what seemed, through the cracks in the door, to be variations on the middle of nowhere. Sleep would have been welcome, but it was soon evident that the appalling suspension and plummeting temperatures ruled out any such respite. They huddled together and shivered.

  It was still dark when the wheels beneath them began rattling through points with increasing frequency, suggesting their arrival in Stettin. Easing the door back a few inches, Russell got a glimpse of what was probably the main station, and a few moments later they were rumbling across the huge swing bridge he remembered from his previous visit.

  The river disappeared, replaced by the backs of apartment blocks, and the train began to slow. Another long bridge across water, and the tracks began multiplying, with stationary rakes of carriages and wagons stretching into the distance. Their train wove a path through several crossings before straightening itself out in a siding and finally wheezing to a halt. Russell eased the door ajar and stuck his head out. The yard was lit with amber lights mounted on high poles, yellowing the snow which lay across the tracks and casting the whole scene in a sepia glow. The guard was hurrying towards him.

  'Stay where you are,' he whispered on reaching their boxcar, his eyes fixed on the distant head of the train. Looking forward, Russell could see a small figure climbing up into the cab, and after a few seconds several bursts of yellow steam rose into the air as the locomotive pulled away. 'Come,' the guard said. 'Quickly.'

  They climbed down, wincing as they gripped the icy handrails. The guard examined them closely, presumably to make sure he had the correct escapees, and couldn't suppress a private smile at recognising the film star behind the half-eroded make-up. 'Follow me,' he said, turning back in the direction of his brake van. At the end of the adjacent train they started zigzagging their way across the fan of tracks, keeping as close as possible to the cover of other rolling stock, and finally reaching the side of a goods warehouse. Following this, they eventually came to a road transshipment area, where a line of darkened lorries was parked.

  A man loomed out of the dark, making them jump. 'This way,' he said, leading them to the lorry at the end of the line. 'In the back,' he ordered, offering Effi a hand up and briefly illuminating the inside with a flashlight. Large crates took up most of the space, but a passage had been left between them. Effi and Russell ensconced themselves at the far end, and listened as their helpers shifted crates across the opening. 'It's like being a child again,' Effi murmured, mostly to herself. The sense of being completely dependent on others was almost comforting.

  The back doors slammed, and a few moments later the engine sprang to life. They moved off, bumping their way across what felt like tracks before finding the smoothness of a real road. From what Russell remembered of Stettin's geography, he guessed they were somewhere to the south and east of the city's centre, close to the main dock area. Where they were going he had no idea, but the journey seemed to take forever, and when the doors were finally opened the grey light of dawn flooded their hiding place. The crates, Russell saw, each contained a single huge glass bottle of some chemical or other.

  They climbed down onto a street of working-class apartment blocks and small industrial premises. Lights were showing in some windows, as the occupants got ready for the day ahead. 'Where are we?' Russell asked the driver, who now had a partner in tow, a younger man with pockmarked cheeks.

  'Bredow. You know where that is?'

  'To the north of the city?'

  'That's right. Kurt will take you in. And good luck,' he added over his shoulder as he headed for his cab.

  'This way,' the young man told them, heading for the entrance to the nearest block. 'It's the top floor,' he added, almost apologetically.

  They twice met men coming down, but neither paid them much attention, and their companion seemed unworried by the fact that they'd been seen. Was the whole block dependable, Russell wondered. He sincerely hoped so.

  On reaching the top floor, the young man led them to the right and knocked softly on the nearest door. A woman opened it, beckoned them in, and introduced herself as Margarete Otting. She was about forty-five, with a
tired face and short blonde hair. 'We're both working Sunday shifts, and my husband has already left,' she said. 'And I am late. Please make yourselves at home. We shall be back soon after four.'

  'Thank you for...' Effi started to say, but Frau Otting was already halfway through the door. 'I must go too,' Kurt told them. 'Someone will come to see you this evening, after Margarete and Hans return from work. In the meantime, please don't go out, and make as little noise as possible.' The door closed behind him, leaving Russell and Effi to share a look of surprise.

  They explored the apartment. It was not much bigger than the one on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, with a small book-lined sitting room and two bedrooms, one of which clearly belonged to Margarete and Hans. The other had twin beds, and showed traces of adolescent occupation. A photograph in the sitting room showed a happier-looking Margarete sitting beside an impishly-smiling Hans, with two serious-looking young men in army uniform standing behind them. The books that lined the walls were a mixture of detective novels and European history, with one thinned-out shelf of philosophy and political theory. Glancing along the latter, Russell reached the conclusion that all the Marxist tomes had been removed.

  Effi was standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. 'I guess we can lie down in the boys' room,' she said.

  Hans Otting arrived home first, and seemed almost over-pleased to meet them. He was one of those truly generous people, Russell realised, with all the joy and heartache that implied for his more practical wife. They were, as Effi put it later, like a goyish version of the Blumenthals. He worked in the docks as a stevedore, she on the local trams, and their one surviving son was serving with Rommel in North Africa. The elder boy had been killed in Russia the previous July.

  Margarete Otting seemed more worried by their presence than her husband, but was careful to show no obvious signs of resentment. She was clearly delighted by the food they had brought from Berlin, and with the large supply of ration tickets which they would probably be leaving behind. The Gestapo might descend on her flat, but she wouldn't starve.