Masaryk Station jr-6

by David Downing

  And so, apparently, were the Soviets. Each time the news was repeated, it came with fresh hints of a Russian response, and at midnight it was finally made official-all rail and road passenger traffic between Berlin and the Western zones had been summarily halted. By this time Rosa was fast asleep, whereas Effi, like hundreds of thousands of other Berliners, was much more awake than she wanted to be, staring blankly at the radio, waiting for someone to say something hopeful.

  Russell picked up the news at Rhein-Main on the Saturday morning. He had known something was up from the moment he arrived at the sprawling airbase as both people and planes seemed to be charging around like headless chickens. At one spot on the edge of the tarmac a surreal pile of passenger seats had accumulated, torn out, he later realised, to make more room for supplies.

  Did the Western Allies really think they could sustain their Berlin sectors by air? They might be able to fly in enough food, but how would Berliners cook it? How would they heat their homes? The Soviets only had to cut off the fuel supplies to the power stations, and that would be that. And if, as seemed increasingly likely, they really meant business this time, then that was exactly what they would do. How could the Allies fight them? With coal planes?

  That morning they seemed reluctant to increase Berlin’s population by even one-Russell needed a phone call from BOB to secure him passage in the belly of a C-47, jammed between sacks of flour and potatoes. And if the physical discomfort was bad, the stress of listening to the two young pilots imagine Soviet fighters behind every approaching cloud was even worse. After listening to that for an hour, Russell was almost wishing that the Russians would shoot them down.

  He got back to Carmer Strasse early that afternoon. Effi and Rosa returned from the park a little bit later, and while Rosa was using the toilet he asked Effi if she’d watched the film. ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I was waiting for you.’

  He felt strangely reluctant to watch it himself, more because it felt like another burnt bridge than because of its probable content. ‘Let’s both wait for Shchepkin,’ he suggested. ‘Before I left, we arranged a meet for tomorrow-I can bring him straight back here. If Zarah can take Rosa, that is.’

  ‘We were all going to see The Wizard of Oz,’ Effi said wistfully. ‘I suppose I’ll have to feel unwell.’

  That evening the three of them went in search of a slap-up dinner on Ku’damm. There were many others doing the same, either drawn out by the sense of gathering crisis or simply intent on spending their Reichsmarks while they could. The authorities still held that the currency reform didn’t apply to the city, but few Berliners were confident of things remaining that way, and already some restaurateurs were only accepting payment in dollars. Small rows were breaking out up and down boulevard, with would-be customers insisting that their money was still legal tender, and proprietors just as certain that it wouldn’t be for very much longer.

  Russell’s dollars secured them a table in a recently re-opened bistro, long renowned for its pfifferling mushrooms. Though now supplied by an entrepreneurial Red Army unit, they were still delicious. Sitting, eating, chatting-the evening passed more than pleasantly. A last chance to breathe easily, Russell thought, because the minute Beria knew they had the film everything would change, for better or for worse.

  Rosa was smiling at him. He could see how happy his daughter was that they were all together again, and for a moment he felt almost overwhelmed by the enormity of the risk they were taking. With evenings like this still possible, how could he say that the old life couldn’t be sustained?

  But it couldn’t, he knew it couldn’t. Sooner or later a juggler dropped a ball, and Russell’s arms felt more tired by the week. Life was a risky business, and one needed wisdom about choosing which risks to take. And this opportunity did seem to offer a huge reward-to all of them-at a relatively low risk. In the end, it was a miracle that any one of them had survived the war, let alone all three. Maybe fate had them under its wing, he thought.

  The Tiergarten almost looked like its old Sunday self the next morning, at least insofar as the people walking there were concerned. The trees might still be saplings, the open spaces pocked with craters, but hundreds of families were strolling across the re-sown grass, enjoying the warm sunshine.

  As he waited for Shchepkin, Russell wondered whether to mention Don Stafford. Did he want to know whether the Russian had arranged Stafford’s death? The answer, of course, was yes, if he hadn’t, and no, if he had. But if Shchepkin had, Russell knew he would never admit it, and so eliciting a denial would serve no purpose. Russell knew he would just have to live with fearing the worst.

  The Russian looked worse than he had the previous week. Maybe it was the brightness of the light, but his lips seemed almost purple, his cheeks tinged with grey. He seemed in good enough spirits, though, and eagerly asked about the film.

  ‘We’ve got it,’ Russell told him.

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’re invited to the premiere.’

  ‘You haven’t looked at it yet. So when?’

  ‘Now, if you’re not too busy.’

  Shchepkin assured him that he wasn’t.

  They took a tram from the park entrance to the Zoo Station, and walked on towards Carmer Strasse.

  In the flat, Effi had the projector all set up. The first thing that became apparent was the quality of the film-Soviet technology in this field had clearly come on apace. The light was poor, and parts of the room seemed pools of shadow, but the human occupants were clearly recognisable. If the man in the dressing gown wasn’t Beria, then it was his double.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s Sonja Strehl,’ Effi said, as the one of two women’s faces turned towards the camera. ‘When did you say this was filmed?’ she asked Russell.

  ‘In February, according to Merzhanov.’

  ‘But she didn’t die until the end of the March.’

  ‘No. Do you know the other woman?’ Russell asked.

  ‘No, but she can’t be more than sixteen.’

  ‘Does Beria have a reputation for liking them young?’ Russell asked Shchepkin.

  ‘So it’s said,’ the Russian replied tersely.

  The women were undressing, presumably at Beria’s command. There was certainly nothing in their faces that suggested pleasure or excitement. Watching, Russell felt ashamed of the stir in his groin.

  Effi wanted to run, or at least to close her eyes, but she forced herself to keep watching. Sonja’s lips were moving, but Beria’s eyes were on the girl, and as he moved forward to grab her by the wrist his penis sprang out of his robe.

  Things happened fast after that: Sonja flung aside, the girl’s run to the door, a gun in Beria’s hand. As he circled the kneeling, shaking girl like a cat tormenting a petrified mouse, Effi finally did close her eyes, and when Russell’s ‘oh shit’ forced them open again, the girl was a crumpled heap in the background, and Beria was walking towards Sonja, pushing her across the edge of the bed and taking her from behind. After pulling out, he held her face down with his knee as he carefully emptied the gun, then turned her over and forced it into her grip.

  ‘Fingerprints,’ Russell murmured.

  Using a handkerchief, Beria carefully retrieved the gun, and after retying his dressing gown and smoothing back his hair in front of the mirror, he knocked on the door and was swiftly let out. Once he was gone, Sonja groped her way across the carpet to cradle the dead girl’s head in her arms, shoulders shaking with grief for what felt like several minutes, before the film abruptly cut off.

  The three of them exchanged stunned looks. It was all they had hoped for, Effi thought bitterly.

  ‘Who was she?’ Russell murmured.

  ‘Someone at the funeral said Sonja had a younger sister,’ Effi remembered. ‘Who couldn’t come because she was in Leningrad. She’s at a the Kirov Ballet school.’

  ‘Or not,’ Russell said. ‘What’s the betting that was her?’

  Effi didn’t want to believe it. ‘But why would Sonja keep silent?
She must have been scared out of her wits, but once she decided to kill herself, why not leave a note?’

  ‘Shame,’ Russell suggested.

  ‘Shame for what?’ Effi retorted angrily. ‘You saw it all. There was nothing she could have done to save her sister. Or herself.’

  ‘We know that, but maybe she didn’t.’

  ‘Beria came back to Berlin at the end of March,’ Shchepkin said. ‘My guess is she couldn’t face the prospect of another meeting.’

  Effi was still not satisfied. ‘That would explain why she killed herself when she did, but not why she didn’t leave a note.’

  ‘She wanted to save her children,’ Shchepkin said simply.

  Effi stared at him. She was, Russell thought, suddenly seeing the Russian for who and what he was.

  ‘I know,’ Shchepkin told her. He looked like death, Russell thought.

  Effi just sighed.

  ‘We can’t bring Sonja or her sister back,’ Russell said. ‘And they may never get justice if we use this film to blackmail Beria. But the living have to take precedence, even when it’s only ourselves.’

  Effi smiled at that. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘So how are we going to approach your boss?’ Russell asked the Russian.

  ‘I’ll take it to him. But first we need copies-two, I think, one for me and one for you. Do you know where we could have them made?’

  ‘I could ask people I know in the industry,’ Effi said, ‘but if someone gives me a name I’ll have no way of knowing how trustworthy the person is.’

  Russell shook his head. ‘A professional job is out of the question. Copying something like this must be illegal, for a start. If we knew what equipment we needed, maybe we could borrow it. Even buy it, as a last resort.’

  Effi had a realisation. ‘The people I got the projector from make most of their money from hiring out sex films. They’d need copies of their best earners, and they can’t be getting them from the studios. Not openly, anyway.’

  ‘You think they’re making their own?’

  ‘Or know someone with the right equipment who doesn’t ask questions. I’ll visit Muller Strasse in the morning.’

  ‘We both will,’ Russell decided. He turned to Shchepkin. ‘And once we have them, you’ll what? Knock on the bastard’s door?’

  ‘Why not? He doesn’t live in the Kremlin. He has a mansion on Kachalova Street, out near the Zoo.’

  ‘How appropriate.’

  ‘I shall tell him we have the original, and what we want in exchange for keeping it hidden-that he will allow my wife and daughter join me here in Berlin, promise to keep silent about your work for the Soviet Union, and guarantee that no retributive action be taken against member of your family. I’ll need a list,’ Shchepkin added.

  Russell wasn’t sure about that, as giving Beria a list of who he cared about felt like asking for trouble. But then again … ‘The man’s not going to like being threatened,’ was all he said.

  ‘Of course not,’ Shchepkin agreed. ‘But he won’t let that get in his way. He needs what we’re offering; he doesn’t need what we want in return. Why should he refuse?’

  Spite, Russell thought, but Shchepkin knew the man better than he did. ‘In the long run? Can we trust him? Come to that, will he trust us?’

  ‘Trust doesn’t come into it. He has nothing to gain by coming after us, and everything to lose. And why would we release the film as long as he leaves us alone?’

  ‘You’re assuming everyone will act reasonably.’

  ‘Well, you and I will. And Beria may be a psychopath, but he’s not irrational.’

  ‘Is that good news or bad?’

  ‘For us, good,’ Shchepkin said, getting to his feet. ‘You must call me on the usual number the moment you have copies.’

  ‘And then you’ll head off to Moscow?’

  ‘Not directly. Provided you agree, I shall take the original somewhere else first. I think I know how to put it beyond even Beria’s reach.’

  ‘Do we need to know where?’

  ‘On the contrary. And I won’t want to know where you’ve hidden the other copy. To be brutally frank, our lives may depend on Beria being unable to discover both hiding places from either one of us.’ He didn’t use the word, but the prospect of torture hung in the air.

  ‘Makes sense,’ Russell agreed.

  As Shchepkin turned to leave, Effi had a last question for him. ‘After what we’ve just seen, doesn’t the prospect of knocking on that man’s door and making him extremely angry frighten you?’

  The Russian thought about it. ‘Yes and no,’ he said eventually. ‘But I’ve already had that conversation with John. I think he’ll grind his teeth and accept our terms. If I’m wrong, and I’m dragged off to a cell, he’ll also come after you. It won’t stop the film seeing the light of day, of course, but I’m sure he’d want to take you down with him.’

  That evening, Rosa wanted to see another of Effi’s audition films. As they watched it in the darkened room, Russell kept seeing the naked women entwined on the carpet, the one who was dead and the one who wasn’t, but might as well have been.

  The shop on Muller Strasse was closed when they reached it the following morning, so the two of them set up a vigil in a cafe window across the street. Almost an hour went by, and they were beginning to give up hope, when the youth who had served Effi on her previous visit ambled into view on the opposite pavement, and inserted his key in the oversized padlock.

  As they walked across the wide thoroughfare, Russell agreed that Effi should do the talking. And, if necessary, the charming.

  The youth smiled when he saw her, and then made a valiant effort to hide his disappointment when he realised she wasn’t alone. ‘Is the projector outside?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I still have it at home. It’s fine. Look,’ Effi said, ‘you were very helpful the other day, and I was wondering … Well, given your line of business, I imagine you need more than one copy of your films?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said cautiously.

  ‘You see, my film-I’d like to make some copies of it. For directors I know. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I could do that for you.’

  ‘Do you make the copies yourself? You don’t use a professional setup?’

  ‘Nothing so grand. And yes, I make them myself. We … I … simply set up a camera alongside the projector, and film the film so to speak. On a white wall, of course.’

  ‘And that makes good copies?’ Russell asked with a disarming smile.

  ‘Good enough,’ the youth said. ‘They’re not quite as sharp, but you don’t lose much.’

  ‘Where do you do it?’ Effi asked.

  ‘In the basement.’

  ‘Ah. The reason I ask is that I don’t want any strangers to see what’s on the film, and so would it be possible for you to set up the equipment in the way that you said, show us how to operate it, and then leave us to make the copies ourselves?’

  ‘That’s not …’

  ‘We’d pay you well,’ Russell interjected.

  ‘How well?’

  After five minutes of haggling they agreed a price. ‘I should have let you go in alone,’ Russell admitted once they’d left. ‘He knows how to deal with men.’

  That evening they returned with the film, and followed the youth down a flight of stone steps to a whitewashed basement. The equipment was already set up. ‘It’s simple,’ their tutor explained, after pocketing the wad of dollars. ‘You just switch them both on, here and here. Adjust the focus with this if you need to, but you probably won’t. How long is it?’ he asked, as he threaded the film on to the sprockets.

  ‘Only twenty minutes or so,’ Effi told him.

  ‘Well after you’ve made the first copy, have a look at it. If there’s a problem, I’ll be upstairs. If not, make the second.’

  They did as he told them. Neither wanted to see the film again, but occasional glances were enough to assure them that it was running to speed. Once the first copy had b
een made, Effi transferred it to the projector, and played the first couple of minutes. It wasn’t as crisp as the original, but in Russell’s opinion was good enough.

  The second copy took them another half an hour, and when they finally emerged on to the pavement darkness was falling. As they waited on the U-Bahn platform Effi asked him where they would hide theirs.

  ‘I haven’t a clue,’ he told her. ‘Anywhere but Hanna’s vegetable patch, I suppose.’ That was where he’d buried the atomic research papers in 1945.

  ‘I suppose that would be the first place the Russians would look.’

  After they emerged from the Zoo Station entrance, Russell stopped at a public telephone and rang the number in the Soviet sector which he used to contact Shchepkin. After the usual coded exchange, he hung up secure in the knowledge that a meeting was arranged for noon the next day.

  ‘So we’ve lit the fuse,’ Effi said, as they walked underneath the railway bridge on Hardenberg Strasse.

  ‘I guess we have.’ Thinking over Shchepkin’s warning, that a vengeful Beria might very well come after them, he decided that their one gun mightn’t be enough.

  At noon the next day Russell waited for Shchepkin at the eastern end of the Tiergarten. It was the Russian’s favourite meeting place-like most of his compatriots he seemed to enjoy staring at the ruined Reichstag-but Russell found the whole setting profoundly depressing. He remembered the park when it was a lovely place for stroll, and the parliament wasn’t packed with Nazis.

  Sitting on their usual bench, he wondered how Shchepkin would cover his tracks when he took the original film ‘beyond Beria’s reach’. Did the Russian have easy access to some office out in Karlshorst where the MGB manufactured false papers? Shchepkin’s position in that organisation was a complete mystery to Russell. He knew the Russian had been imprisoned for several months-maybe more-towards the end of the war, but he had never really found out why. All Shchepkin had said to him was that he’d ended up on the wrong side in some inter-party dispute, and been rehabilitated, at least in part, because of his suitability as Russell’s control. But he obviously had other duties to perform, and other agents to supervise, so presumably someone in the Kremlin must like him.