Silesian Station (2008) jr-2

by David Downing

  Russell left them to their optimism, and went up to his rooms. He took almost three hours over the article - it was his first major piece for the Tribune and he wanted it to be good. After lunching at the bar under the Hallesches Tor Station he drove back into the old city and sent the story off.

  Next stop was the Alex. The duty officer in Room 512 searched through a pile of refused Protectorate visa applications for Russell's, and deduced from its non-appearance that the refusal had not yet been put to paper. When Russell suggested that his application might have been accepted, the man opened a drawer to demonstrate its emptiness, only to find a single waiting permit. He examined it for several seconds, and finally passed it over.

  Russell drove back across the river to the American Express office on Charlotten-Strasse. A couple of months earlier a German friend had told him that first class travellers - like army officers and government officials - were allowed to sleep through the border checks, provided they handed their documents over to the carriage attendant with a decent tip. And after his traumas at the same border in March that seemed like a really good deal, especially if the Tribune was paying.

  As it happened, the American Express office could sell him a first class ticket and book him into a hotel, but the sleeper reservation required a trip to Anhalter Station.

  By the time he got back to the Adlon bar it was gone five. Noticing Dick Normanton hard at work at a corner table, Russell bought him a whiskey. 'Anything I should know?' he asked, placing the glass down on the polished wooden surface.

  'Thanks,' Normanton said wryly, and took a sip. 'Just between us,' he said. 'I don't want my fellow Brits to get wind of this.'

  'My lips are sealed.'

  'Have you heard of Ernest Tennant?'

  'English businessman. Friend of Ribbentrop's, impossible as that seems.'

  Normanton smirked. 'Not so much these days. Tennant's just been visiting Ribbentrop's castle...'

  'The one he stole by putting the owner in Dachau?'

  'Do you want to hear this story or not?'

  Russell raised his palms in surrender.

  'They arrived in Berlin together this afternoon - Ribbentrop had his two private coaches attached to the express from Munich. Tennant came straight here, and I had a chat with him in his hotel room.'

  'You know him?'

  'My owner does, and Tennant told him he was seeing Ribbentrop. Reading between the lines, I'd say he was hoping to emerge as a peacemaker, but ready to put some distance between himself and the Nazis if Ribbentrop refused to play ball. Which of course he did. Told Tennant that Hitler was the greatest human being since Mohammed, and then started back-tracking when he realized the implication - that the Fuhrer was less important than a mere Arab.'

  'The usual nonsense.'

  'Exactly. The important part came later. On the train here Tennant got talking to Walther Hewel - know who he is?'

  'Hitler's liaison with Ribbentrop, or is it the other way round?'

  'Both, I suppose. Anyway, his take on the current situation - and we assume Adolf's - is that Chamberlain and Co. rushed into guaranteeing Poland without really thinking it through, and that they're now desperately looking for a face-saving way out. The Germans think that Hudson's Howler was just the first of many trial balloons, that when push comes to shove the British will provide themselves with some sort of excuse not to fight.'

  'Which is bad news.'

  'For everybody. The Poles because they'll get squashed, the Germans and the British because they'll find themselves at war with each other without really wanting to.'

  'Happy days.'

  'Thanks for the drink.'

  Russell played poker with several American colleagues that evening, and gave Jack Slaney a lift home in the small hours. They stopped at the all night kiosk in Alexanderplatz for sobering coffees and early editions of the morning papers. 'What did I tell you?' Slaney asked after a few moments with the Beobachter. He folded the paper in half and pushed it under Russell's nose, and jabbed a finger at the editorial. Danzig, it seemed, was no longer enough. Real peace, the editor announced, would require a Polish willingness to discuss self-determination in the Corridor, in the lost provinces, in Upper Silesia. Would require Poland to lie on its back and wave its arms and legs in the air.

  'They think they're pushing at an open door,' Slaney said.

  'Yes,' Russell agreed, thinking about his talk earlier with Dick Normanton. 'Question is, will it slam shut behind them?'

  'You Brits will fight, but your government sure as hell doesn't want to. They should be trying to scare the Germans, not reassure them. And if Ribbentrop's wining and dining Astakhov then they should be taking Stalin out for a meal.'

  'He'd probably eat them.'

  Slaney laughed, and the two of them sat there drinking their coffee, staring out across the dimly-lit square.

  The following morning, soon after eleven, Russell arrived for his appointment at the Soviet Embassy. The thin-lipped Sasha answered the door, and the usual receptionist ignored him while Gorodnikov was appraised of his presence. Up in the office overlooking the boulevard he found the attache fanning himself with a sheaf of papers.

  'It's like summer in Batum,' Gorodnikov said. 'Have you ever been in Ba-tum?'

  Russell had not.

  'It is like this. All summer. You English call it sticky, I believe.'

  'We do. So have you heard from Moscow?'

  'Yes, of course,' the Russian said, sounding offended at the mere question.

  'So what do they want me to tell the Germans?'

  'You are to say that we accept offer, that we agree to pay you good money for any information concerning German plans that involve the Soviet Union - military, economic, anything. You must say that we are most interested in German intentions towards us, that we worry about attack.'

  'All right. And your side of the bargain?'

  'Yes, yes. They will give you what you ask for.' Gorodnikov was shuffling through his fan for the right piece of paper. 'Someone likes you in Moscow, yes?'

  'That's good to know.'

  'Maybe. Maybe not. Depends who it is.'

  'True.'

  'Ah, here it is,' he said, extracting one sheet and putting the others down. 'Moscow agrees to help you escape from Germany. You and your lady friend. But only in real emergency. You understand? Not for holiday in the sun.'

  'I understand.' And Russell did - the Soviets would get him and Effi out of Germany, but only once he'd proved his worth, and only if the Nazi authorities were actually snapping at their heels. The Soviets had nothing to gain by helping them out any sooner.

  He asked for the contact number.

  'We shall get to that. First, a small job you must do for us.'

  Russell's heart sank a little deeper. 'What sort of small job?'

  'You will go to Stettin, and see a woman there. Let me explain.' Gorodnikov leant forward, elbows on the desk and fingers interlocked. The Soviets, he told Russell, had had an agent in the Stettin docks, a man named Bern-hard Neumaier. The Gestapo had arrested him on the previous Saturday, and he had died under interrogation in Sachsenhausen on Wednesday. A couple of weeks before his arrest Neumaier had told the regular courier that his girlfriend was pregnant. He had asked the Party to look after her if anything happened to him. Her name was Erna Kliemann.

  'Does she know he's dead?' Russell asked.

  'We do not know.'

  'Does the Gestapo know about her?'

  'Our best information is that Neumaier gives nobody up. A brave man, if that is true.'

  Russell hoped it was. If it wasn't, and her name had slipped out under tor-ture, then the Gestapo would be waiting for someone to turn up. 'Why not send the regular courier?' he asked.

  'If Neumaier tells the Gestapo anything, then this man is compromised. And he knows many names.'

  Perfect, Russell thought. He tried another tack. 'Why risk anyone?'

  'The woman needs to know that Neumaier is dead. If she go to author
ities with questions - bad for her and bad for us. We not know what Neumaier tells her - maybe nothing, maybe everything. If she says nothing, then good for her and good for us. And we want to give her help.' He passed an unsealed envelope across the desk; it was stuffed with twenty-Reichsmark notes. 'We look after our people,' Gorodnikov said defiantly, as if daring Russell to deny it.

  The money would help, Russell agreed. 'Why not send it?' he suggested innocently.

  'Not possible to send money without explain,' Gorodnikov told him. 'She must learn how much Neumaier care for her.'

  Of course, Russell thought. The money would only keep her quiet if she knew where it came from.

  'And too urgent for post,' Gorodnikov added pointedly.

  'When do you expect me to go?' Russell wanted to know.

  'Today.'

  'Oh no...'

  'It will only take few hours. Two hours there, two hours back - you dine in Berlin.'

  'I...'

  'You want way out of Germany for you and your girlfriend. This is what Moscow expect in return.'

  Russell considered. It could be a lot worse, he thought. There was nothing illegal about carrying an envelope full of cash, and if there was any sign of a watch on the woman's home he could just walk away. And the reward had to be worth it. 'All right,' he said, pocketing the envelope. 'What's her address?'

  Gorodnikov had already written it out. 'You must remember and destroy before you arrive in Stettin,' he advised.

  'I will. Now what about that contact number?'

  Gorodnikov printed out a telephone number and passed it across. 'You ask for Martin.'

  Russell looked at the number, and recognized it. It was the photographic studio in Neukolln which he often used. Miroslav Zembski, the man who owned and ran it, had to be Martin. Russell had known Zembski was a communist before the Nazi takeover, but had assumed that the fat Silesian's willingness to fake him a passport earlier that year had simply been for old times' sake. Now he knew otherwise - Zembski was still on the active list. Another double life. Another reason for hope. 'I have some information for you,' he told Gorodnikov. 'A KPD cell, here in Berlin. It has had no contact with the leadership for four years, and...'

  'This is a matter for the KPD.'

  'One of the women has become the lover of a high-ranking SS officer. She says she has access to information that will be very useful to you.'

  'Ah. This woman's name?'

  'Sarah Grostein.'

  'A Jew?'

  'Her husband Richard was a Jew. And a prominent member of the KPD.'

  Gorodnikov wrote the name down. 'I look into.' He looked up. 'If Moscow says yes, they will expect you to be woman's contact.'

  'I'd rather you contacted her directly.'

  'You know her. And the SD not object to you coming here. They tell you to come here!'

  It made sense. 'We'll see,' he said weakly.

  Sasha was summoned to show him out. As he walked down the marble stairs Russell remembered Sarah Grostein's comment about life and death decisions. Had he just taken several more?

  There was an autobahn to Stettin, but Russell decided to give the Hanomag a rest. Erna Kliemann probably lived in one of the city's less salubrious districts, where cars and their occupants tended to be conspicuous. And the train would be just as quick.

  He arrived in Stettin soon after five. After obtaining directions for Lastadie, he walked up the west bank of the wide Oder to catch a tram across the Hansa Bridge. A five minute ride brought him to Grosse Lastadie, the dockland suburb's main street, where a helpful old woman pointed him in the direction of the junction with Schwangstrasse. No.14 was fifty metres down, a house with three storeys of living space above a small workers' restaurant and a tobacconist. The former was already closed for the day, and the proprietor of the latter was busy locking up. The entrance to the rooms above lay between them.

  It was the sort of area the Nazi authorities liked to visit in strength, but Russell carefully scanned the surrounding windows, and ostentatiously examined the piece of paper he had inscribed with her address and a made-up name, before heading across the street and in through the open front doors. The smell in the stairwell, an unhappy blend of boiled cabbage and tobacco, pursued him upwards, growing stronger with each flight of creaking treads. Room 7 was right at the top, and a small piece of paper bearing a neatly-in-scribed 'E. Kliemann' was pinned beside the door. There was no answer to his knock.

  A second, louder knock brought no response from inside, but the door behind him opened to reveal a young boy in his school uniform. 'Erna's not back yet,' the boy announced.

  'Do you know when she will be?' Russell asked.

  'She goes to her sister most days. She's usually back by eight o'clock.'

  It wasn't much gone six - he'd have to come back. 'Thank you,' Russell said. 'I'll try again later.'

  'You are most welcome,' the boy told him.

  Back on Schwangstrasse Russell noticed an open bar on the opposite side. The evening trade hadn't yet arrived, and the only two customers were sat at the back, half-hidden in a cloud of pipe-smoke. Russell ordered the only food on the menu - a sausage casserole - took a beer back to a window seat, and began his vigil.

  Two hours dragged by. He was beginning to think he must have missed her when a young woman in a blue frock walked slowly by on the opposite pavement. She had straight dark hair cut to the shoulder, was small, slim and obviously pregnant. Russell watched her turn in through the open front doors.

  He waited a couple of minutes, then followed her in. Responding to his knock, she pulled the door back a few inches, and placed a careworn face in the gap.

  'Erna Kliemann?' Russell asked.

  'Yes,' she admitted, gazing past his shoulder to check he was alone.

  'I've come about Bernhard Neumaier.'

  Her body seemed to sag. 'He's dead, isn't he?'

  'I'm afraid he is.'

  She closed her eyes, fingers tightening on the edge of the door.

  'Can I come in?'

  The eyes re-opened, bleak and hostile. 'What for?' she asked. 'Who are you?'

  'I have something for you. From his friends.'

  'Why should I believe that?'

  'If I was the enemy, I wouldn't be asking.'

  She gave him a searching look, then widened the aperture to let him in.

  Russell stepped inside. The room was right under the roof, with a sloping ceiling and a small dormer window. It was sparsely furnished, with just a bed, a single upright chair and a wide shelf for the wash bowl.

  She closed the door and turned to face him. 'He died last Saturday, didn't he? I felt it.'

  'I don't know when he was killed,' Russell lied. It seemed kinder to leave her believing in some special psychic connection. And who knew? - maybe some part of Neumaier had died on the Saturday.

  'It was Saturday,' she reiterated, sitting down on the bed and holding her belly with one hand.

  She had a pretty face beneath all the weariness and grief, Russell realized. And she couldn't be much more than eighteen.

  'How did he die?' she asked.

  'We think he was shot,' Russell said, taking the upright chair. There was no need for her to know that Neumaier had died under torture.

  She looked at the floor for several moments, rocking gently to and fro, hands clasped against her swollen belly.

  Russell asked if she'd known that Neumaier was a communist.

  'Of course.' She raised her head. 'Bernhard believed in the Soviet Union. And the International.'

  The recitation sounded almost defensive, but he could see that the words were important to her. Her man had died for something worthwhile, something noble. The solace of any religion, Russell thought cynically.

  'Bernhard told his contact that you were having his child. He asked the Party to look out for you if anything happened to him.'

  A large tear rolled down one cheek. The first of a stream.

  He handed her the envelope, and watched her ex
amine its contents.

  'There's hundreds of Reichsmarks here,' she whispered.

  'For you and the child.'

  She lowered herself to her knees and pulled a battered suitcase out from under the bed. 'It was his,' she explained, clicking it open. 'There are only his clothes and this,' she added, handing Russell a small notebook. The tears were still flowing. 'He was going to pass this on at his next treff.'

  It was full of small, neat writing in black ink. Timetables, tonnages, names of ships. At first glance it looked like a detailed breakdown of the cross-Baltic trade in Swedish iron ore. That trade was certainly vital to the German war machine, but Russell had no way of knowing if the information in the note-book was secret or valuable.

  He didn't want to know. 'This could get you arrested,' he said, holding it out to her. 'You should burn it.'

  She stared at him, surprise sliding into disgust. 'He died for that,' she almost hissed.

  'Then post it anonymously to the Soviet Embassy in Berlin,' Russell suggested.

  She angrily shook her head. 'Bernhard said that anything with that address was intercepted and opened. That's why he was waiting for the courier. Now you must take it.' She wiped her face with the back of her hands and glared at him.

  Russell realized she wasn't going to take no for an answer. And he could always get rid of the damn notebook himself - she would never know. 'All right,' he told her, slipping it into his inside pocket. 'I'll see that the Party gets it.'

  'He said it was really important,' she insisted, determined that Russell should acknowledge the same.

  'Then it probably is,' he agreed, getting to his feet. 'I wish you luck,' he added, opening the door to let himself out. It sounded ludicrously inadequate, but what else was there to say? He could hear her begin to sob as he started down the stairs.

  Back on Grosse Lastadie he stood at the tram stop, checking his watch and feeling somewhat exposed. It was only half-past eight on a Friday evening, and not even fully dark, but there were few people on the street and hardly any traffic. Lastadie seemed devoid of taxis, and the infrequent trams were all headed in the wrong direction. Half an hour into waiting, it was clear that walking would have been the wiser choice.