Potsdam Station (29 page)

‘I understand what you’re telling me…’

‘Have you ever done any nursing?’ Annaliese interjected.

‘Only in movies.’

‘Well, how you would like to learn? We’re ridiculously short-handed, and what you see makes you want to weep, but there’s food and water and we do some good.’

‘What about Rosa?’

‘She can come too. I forgot to say – you’ll also get somewhere to sleep. You’ll have to share, but it’ll be better than this.’

‘Sounds wonderful,’ Effi said.

‘Okay,’ Annaliese said, levering herself back to her feet, ‘I’ll tell them you’re an old friend, and willing to help. I’ll be back soon.’

She disappeared up the corridor, leaving Effi wondering about Zarah. If her sister was still out in Schmargendorf, then the Russians would probably get to her before she could. And if Zarah was in a government bunker with Jens, there was no way that Effi could find her. There was nothing more she could do.

Annaliese was true to her word, returning a few minutes later. Effi woke Rosa and introduced her friend, who led them through rooms full of wounded men, and down some stairs to a small room with bare brick walls and two pairs of bunk beds. A single candle was burning in the middle of the floor.

‘That bottom one’s yours,’ Annaliese told here. ‘You start in the morning with me. Now I’ll get you a little water.’

Rosa sat down on the bed and smiled up at Effi. The smell of shit was weaker here, the smell of blood much stronger. An appropriate spot to see out a war.

Corpse brides

April 22 – 23

R
ussell could only find one spade in the pitch-black shed, so he sent the Russian back inside, fought his way through the brambles to where he thought Hanna’s vegetable patch had been, and began digging. There was little chance of his being heard – the rain and wind would see to that. Not to mention the occasional slam of an exploding shell. It was a night for burying oneself, not atomic secrets.

Varennikov had insisted on a depth of two metres, in case a shell landed on top of his precious papers. Russell decided on a third of that – if the choice was between him getting pneumonia and the Soviets an atomic bomb, he knew damn well which he preferred.

At least it wasn’t cold. He dug on, careful to pile the excavated earth alongside the hole. Once he’d gone down a couple of feet – he supposed he still measured digging in English units because of his experience in the trenches – he pulled the papers out from inside Thomas’ raincoat and placed them at the bottom of the hole. Varennikov had wrapped them in a piece of oilskin that he’d found in the larder, which should protect them from damp for a couple of weeks.

After a moment’s hesitation, he added Gusakovsky’s machine pistol to the hoard – a weapon for emergencies was all well and good, but being caught with it would see them both shot as spies.

He shovelled back the earth and tamped it down, first with the spade and then with his feet. The rain seemed to be easing.

After returning the front door key to its hiding place he went back inside.

‘You dug two metres already?’ Varennikov asked with a lamentable lack of trust.

‘At least,’ Russell lied. ‘The soil is soft here,’ he added for good measure. ‘Let’s go.’

Dawn would be around six, which gave them three hours to cover the ten kilometres. This had seemed like plenty of time, but, as soon became clear, it was not. For one thing, Russell was uncertain of the route – he had driven in from Dahlem on enough occasions in the past, but only along those main thoroughfares which he now wished to avoid. For another, visibility was atrocious. The rain had stopped, but clouds still covered the heavens, leaving reflected fires and explosions as the only real sources of light. It took them more than ninety minutes to reach the inner circle of the Ringbahn, which was less than halfway to their destination.

They saw few signs of life – the occasional glimmer of light seeping out of a basement, a cigarette glowing in the window of a gouged-out house, the sound of a couple making vigorous love in a darkened doorway. Once, two figures crept furtively past on the other side of the street, like a mirror image of themselves. They were in uniform, but didn’t appear to be carrying guns. Deserters most likely, and who could blame them?

As Russell and Varennikov entered Wilmersdorf, the sky began to break up, and patches of starlight emerged between fast-moving clouds. This offered easier movement, but only at the price of enhanced visibility. They narrowly avoided two uniformed patrols by the fortunate expedient of seeing them first – in each case a flaring match betrayed the approaching authorities, giving them time to slip into the shadows. As dawn approached an increasing numbers of military lorries, troop carriers and mounted guns could be seen and heard on the main roads. Everyone, it seemed, was hurrying to get under cover.

Once in Schöneberg, Russell felt surer of directions. He followed a street running parallel to the wide Grunewald Strasse, on which he and Ilse had lived almost twenty years earlier, and passed what was left of the huge Schöneberg tram depot, before turning up towards Heinrich von Kleist Park, where Paul had taken his faltering first steps. The park was in use as some sort of military assembly area, but a short detour brought them to Potsdamer Strasse a few hundred metres south of where Russell had intended. At the end of a facing side street the elevated tracks leading north towards Potsdam Station were silhouetted against the rapidly lightening sky.

The sprawling goods complex was a few hundred metres up the line. Russell had visited the street-level offices once before, accompanying Thomas in search of some printing machinery supposedly en route from the Ruhr. On that day the areas beside and under the tracks had been choked with lorries, but the only vehicles in sight on this particular morning were bomb victims. One lorry had lost the front part of its chassis, and seemed to be kneeling in prayer.

Russell found it hard to believe that anyone would still be working in the goods station – what, after all, could still be coming in or out of Berlin? And it was only six-fifteen in the morning. But he followed the signs to the dispatch office, Varennikov meekly in tow. And lo and behold, there was a Reichsbahn official in neat uniform, two candles illuminating the ledger over which his pencil was poised. After their long night walk across the broken city, the normality seemed almost surreal.

The official looked up as they entered, surprise on his face. Customers of any kind had doubtless become rare, let alone men in foreign worker uniforms. ‘Yes?’ he asked, with a mixture of nervousness and truculence.

‘We’ve been sent by the Air Ministry,’ Russell began. ‘Our boss was told last week that a shipment of paintings had arrived from Königsberg, but he hasn’t received them. If you could check that they’re here, a vehicle can be sent to collect them. I was told to say that our boss has already spoken to Diehls.’

Comprehension dawned on the official’s face, causing Russell to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘We were told to expect you,’ the man continued, in a tone that suggested they hadn’t believed it. He came out from behind his desk and shook their hands. ‘Please, come with me.’

He took a flashlight from his desk, led them out through the back of the building and up a steep iron stairway to rail level. The rising sun had barely cleared the distant rooftops, but the smoke from explosions and fires had already turned it into a dull red ball. As they walked by a line of gutted carriages a shell landed a few hundred metres further down the viaduct, but their guide showed no reaction, ducking under a coupling and crossing a series of tracks to enter a huge and now roofless depot. Inside, the loading platforms were lined with what had once been wagons, and now looked more like firewood. Another shell exploded, closer this time, and Russell was glad to take another staircase down, their guide using his flashlight to illuminate the abandoned office complex beneath the tracks. More stairs and they were actually underground, which had to be an improvement. A corridor led past a row of offices still in apparent use, though none had human occupants. Two more turnings and they reached a half open door, which their guide put his head around. ‘The men for the Königsberg paintings,’ Russell heard him say.

There was the sound of a chair scraping back, and the door opened wide. ‘Come in, come in,’ their new host said, suppressed excitement in his voice. He was also wearing a Reichsbahn uniform, but was much younger than their guide. No more than thirty-five, Russell guessed.

‘I am Stefan Leissner,’ he said, offering his hand.

‘This is Ilya Varennikov,’ Russell said. ‘He doesn’t speak much German.’ He introduced himself. ‘We had two companions, but they were both killed.’

‘How?’ Leissner asked. He looked shocked, as if the notion that Soviet officials were mortal had not occurred to him.

‘In an air raid. They were unlucky.’

‘I am very sorry to hear that. But it is good to see you, comrades. I hope your mission has proved successful.’

‘I think so,’ Russell told him. He had no idea whether Leissner knew what their mission had been, and decided that he probably didn’t – the NKVD were not known for their chattiness. ‘And you are able to hide us until the Red Army arrives?’

‘Yes, of course.’ Leissner looked at his watch. ‘And I should take you to… your quarters, I suppose. I doubt whether many will come to work today, and those that do will mostly be comrades, but there is no point in taking risks. Come.’

Their original guide had been outside, presumably keeping watch. Dis-missed, he walked back down the corridor, his flashlight beam dancing in front of him, while Leissner turned the other way, and quickly brought them to the top of a spiral staircase. ‘You go down first,’ he said, shining his torch to show them the way. When they all reached the bottom, the flashlight revealed two pairs of still-shining tracks – they were in a small lobby adjoining a railway tunnel.

‘This is the S-Bahn line that runs under Potsdam Station and north towards Friedrichstrasse,’ Leissner explained, stepping down onto the sleepers. ‘There are no services on this line anymore, just a few hospital trains stabled beneath Budapester Strasse.’ He set off alongside the tracks, assuring them over his shoulder that the electricity was off. The tunnel soon widened, platforms appearing on either side. They climbed up, and turned in through a corridor opening. Tiny feet scurried away from the questing flashlight beam, awakening memories of the trenches which Russell would rather forget. Much to his relief, they went up another spiral staircase, emerging into a wide hall with a high ceiling. The old skylights had been covered over, but light still glinted round the edges.

A door led through to a large room, in which several camp beds had been set up. There was water, cans of food and a bucket toilet. For illumination there were candles, matches, and a railway headlamp. ‘It’s only for a few days,’ Leissner said apologetically. ‘And it should be safe. The only way in is the one we used – the old station entrance was bricked up before the First War. A comrade will stand guard in the tunnel – if you need anything, just go down and tell him. The army might decide to flood the tunnels by blowing up the roof where it passes under the Landwehrkanal, but that wouldn’t be a problem for you. Not for long, in any case. You wouldn’t be able to get out until the waters went down again, but you’d still be fine up here.’ He lit one of the candles, and dribbled wax onto to the tiled floor to hold it upright. ‘There,’ he said, ‘just like home.’ It was almost light when Paul awoke. He had spent most of the last twelve hours under their tank, catching up on the sleep he was owed. Ivan’s planes had provided several unwanted alarms, but his own thoughts hadn’t kept him awake, as had happened all too often of late. And he knew he had Uncle Thomas to thank for that. It was incredible how calming simple decency could be.

He slid himself out from under the Panzer IV’s exhaust, and found that a light rain was falling. He clambered up the low embankment behind which the tank was positioned, and walked across to the promenade parapet. The dark waters of the Dahme slid north towards their meeting with the Spree, and a host of shadows were streaming across the Lange Bridge. All German, all civilian, as far as he could tell.

Looking round for Werner, he saw the boy walking towards him with a mug of something hot, and had a sudden memory of ’Orace, the breakfast-serving batman in many of the Saint books. He had loved those stories.

‘There’s a canteen in Köllnischerplatz,’ Werner said, offering him the mug, ‘but they’ve run out of food.’

Church bells were ringing away to the west, faint and somehow sad. As they listened to the distant tolling, Paul realised that the sounds of war had died away. Could peace have been declared?

Seconds later, a machine-gun opened up in the distance, leaving him absurdly disappointed.

‘Do you believe in God?’ Werner asked.

‘No,’ Paul said. His parents had both been convinced atheists, and even his conservative stepfather had never willingly set foot in a church. In fact, though it pained him to admit it, one of the things his younger self had most admired about the Nazis was their contempt for Christianity.

‘Me neither,’ Werner said, with far too much assurance for a fourteen-year-old. ‘But my mother does,’ he added. ‘My granddad was a chaplain in the First War. He used to say that people always behave better when they believe in something more powerful than themselves, so long as that something isn’t other people.’