Masaryk Station (John Russell) (15 page)

She gave him a look. ‘You’re
expected
.’

He smiled, took her in his arms, and kissed her. ‘Let’s have an early night.’

‘All right,’ she said, hugging him tighter and resting her head on his shoulder. ‘But first I have something to tell you.’

She sounded nervous, he thought, which wasn’t like her. He gently pulled back to look her in the eyes.

‘I’m pregnant.’

He stared at her, shaking his head with wonder, feeling joy rise up through his chest.

‘You look pleased.’

‘Oh God, yes.’

‘Well, thank God for that!’

‘We’ll have to get married.’

‘We don’t have to.’

‘Will you marry me?’

Annaliese beamed at Ströhm. ‘Of course I will.’

The interrogation started badly. There was no English speaker available, so the UDBA officer—Russell recognised the uniform—put his face a few inches from Russell’s and shouted at him in Serbo-Croat. When an English-speaker was found, and Russell was accused of consorting with the enemy, his response—that he could hardly consort with someone who wasn’t there—earned him a playful slap in the face which almost knocked him over. Wit, it seemed, was not appreciated.

Russell managed to look suitably cowed by the prospect of more violence—which didn’t stretch his acting ability—and things settled down a bit. His interrogator, who introduced himself as Colonel Milanković, was a tall, prematurely grey Serb with an obvious bullet scar on his neck. He made a brief statement, which the interpreter, a
much younger man with the scant beginnings of a beard, faithfully conveyed to Russell. His choices it seemed were two: the marble quarry on Naked Island—the good option—or execution as a spy.

‘I’m not a spy,’ Russell lied.

‘What other reason could you have for visiting a known enemy of the state?’

‘I didn’t know Pograjac was an enemy of the state,’ Russell said, choosing his words carefully. ‘I knew he was an opponent of the current government, and in my country journalists talk to members of the opposition. And that’s why I visited him. To ask him for an interview. As a journalist, not as a spy.’

Colonel Milanković’s response seemed much longer than the eventual translation—‘we have only your word for that.’

He was then told that his hotel room was being searched, and that questioning would resume once the search team had reported.

‘They won’t find anything,’ Russell insisted. And they wouldn’t, unless they had put it there.

He was left to stew in the interview room. The door hadn’t been locked, but there was at least one guard outside, and there was nowhere he could run to. He didn’t even know where he was, having been brought there in the back of a windowless van. It had only taken about fifteen minutes, so he assumed he was still in Belgrade.

He paced up and down, rehearsing what he should and shouldn’t say, wondering how long it would take the Soviets and Americans to realise he’d gone missing, and whether they would or could do anything about it. He still had his insurance, but he wanted to be sure of exactly what he was being accused before revealing his only defence. Proving he wasn’t an American spy wouldn’t help that much if they thought he was working for Moscow.

His inquisitors returned. Something had been found in his hotel room—the list of Central Committee members.

He used the explanation Nedić had suggested, grateful that he’d resisted the temptation to write the code number down.

‘Ah,’ Milanković said, with the air of a dog who’d just caught sight of a brand-new bone. Perhaps Mister Russell could recall the five-minute conversation he’d had with Comrade Nedić, behind the comrade’s house?

Russell decided not to ask how they knew about that—one slap a day was more than enough. ‘We were looking at the river,’ he said, trying to sound surprised.

‘Why?’

Russell shrugged. ‘Why not? It’s the Danube. It’s famous. I wanted to see it.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘Why not? Why would I have a secret conversation with Comrade Nedić? He’s a friend of Moscow, isn’t he?

‘Is he?’

‘Well, he has that reputation. As you already know, he said nothing to confirm it.’

‘
Inside
the house.’

‘Or outside. Are you really accusing me of working for the Soviets?’

Milanković smiled to himself. ‘No, Mister Russell, I’m accusing you of working for the Americans. Or perhaps the British. They are both sponsoring campaigns of terror against Yugoslavia, arming and funding former war criminals and sending them across the border on murder missions.’

‘I do know that. But I don’t work for either of them. I’m a journalist.’

Milanković just looked at him.

‘I also know the details of a particular operation, which is either already underway or will be very soon.’

Milanković seemed almost disappointed. ‘Comrades you’ll now betray in hope of saving your skin.’

Russell shook his head. ‘They’re no comrades of mine, and I informed your authorities about them before I was arrested.’

‘Who? How?’

He explained about the four Križari and their terrorist plans. ‘I saw the false papers which a Catholic priest in Trieste had prepared for them, on instructions from American intelligence. The letter I sent to your central bureau contains the names on those papers. Which should make them easy to pick up.’

Now Milanković looked bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just report this to the police?’

‘I’m a journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m supposed to report events, not manipulate them.’

‘So why have you? Why would you put the interests of Yugoslavia above those of your own country?

Russell smiled. ‘The interests of American intelligence and the interests of America aren’t the same thing. And no, I don’t have any special affection for Yugoslavia, but I have every reason to loathe the Ustashe. Who doesn’t? And I feel ashamed of my government for using such people.’ He sounded like he believed it, which was probably because he did.

Milanković was only half convinced. ‘So where did you post this letter?’

‘In the central post office. A girl named Adrijana sold me the stamp, and I expect she’ll remember me.’

‘We will talk to her, and wait for the morning delivery. In the meantime, you will have to sleep here. I’m sure a meal can be arranged.’

The food was awful, the cot in his cell as soft as a plank, and if the noises off were any guide his fellow detainees were suffering
much more than he was. But he managed a few hours of dream-filled sleep, and felt only slightly less than human when business was resumed.

The letter had apparently arrived, and the UDBA was duly grateful. As for his arrest, well, Mister Russell would surely appreciate that sometimes wrong conclusions were drawn, and that he himself perhaps bore some responsibility for those reached on this occasion.

Russell wasn’t about to argue. The way he saw it, they were bound still to be suspicious. He had offered innocent explanations for the missing minutes with Nedić and his visit to Pograjac, and he could doubtless conjure up another for casting off his shadow. But he couldn’t disprove their alternative explanations, and with people like these you were guilty until proven innocent. Everything else being equal, he could see himself back in a cell.

But of course it wasn’t. He
had
given them four of the hated Križari, they
were
keen to see his article published, and he could tell from Milanković’s face that he was about to be released.

Russell risked a question: ‘What has happened to Zoran Pograjac?’

He had just been tried, and found guilty of conspiracy against the state.

‘Goli Otok for him, then.’

‘He wasn’t that lucky.’

They met up at Anhalter Station, and joined the waiting crowd on the open platform—the bombed-out roof had still not been replaced. Ströhm’s bag contained the rest of the past
payok
parcel, Effi’s a bottle of wine which Zarah had passed on from Bill. She had invited them and Lothar, but they were going to a US Army baseball game out in Dahlem. Rosa was carrying her drawing pad and pencils in a satchel over her shoulder, and worrying that the train might be full.

‘It’s coming from the depot,’ Ströhm assured her. ‘It’ll be empty.’

It was, but didn’t take long to fill up. One pregnant woman was left standing, and Effi was about to offer her seat when a Red Army soldier beat her to it, all concern and joviality. This, no doubt unreasonably, made her feel less anxious about taking a trip out into the Soviet zone. None of the people she’d asked had thought there was reason to worry, but there was still a vague sense of placing one’s head between the jaws of a playful lion. But at least with Ströhm there, too, they had some good insurance.

The train set off, inching out along the viaduct and through the still-neglected yards. As it slowly gathered a modicum of speed, the gapped streets grew increasingly whole, until, in the farthest suburbs, the legacies of war became almost invisible. And once they were out in open country, it felt like another planet entirely; one where grey was unknown, and the greens of spring shone with a shocking intensity.

It took almost an hour and a half to reach Werder. They emerged from the station into what Effi imagined was Moscow writ small—the square was festooned with posters announcing the Soviet Union’s abolition of poverty, unemployment, racism, and everything else that blighted the unfortunate West. A montage of heroes adorned the building opposite the station, and away to the left a group of boys were playing football underneath a giant portrait of Zhukov. All the shops lining one side had been abandoned, although one now housed the local headquarters of the SED, the Socialist Unity Party. Staffed by people like Ströhm, Effi thought, as they walked past it. A lot of people she knew hated and feared the SED, but a party full of Ströhms seemed nothing to be afraid of. Were they misjudging the Party, or did she not know the man?

She looked at Ströhm, who was talking to Rosa. The girl really liked him, which was a good sign. And he seemed happier than usual today.

It didn’t take them long to get out of the town, and on to a narrow road that wound between meadows studded with poppies and burrowed through occasional stands of pine, the wide expanse of the Havel glinting not far to the north. The breeze was full of beautiful fragrances, the sky above almost swarming with birds. Everything seemed so alive.

Or almost everything. They passed a Soviet cemetery, red stars on every grave. They had their reasons, Effi thought. And after April’s panic they were seeming more reasonable again.

After eating lunch beneath a gnarled tree on the shore of the Havel, Rosa took out her drawing pad, and sat looking across the lake for quite a while before putting pencil to paper. She wasn’t used to distances, Effi realised. It crossed her mind that if the Russians laid siege to Berlin’s Western sectors, as many feared they would, then she and Rosa could say farewell to days like this.

A gloomy thought. Ströhm was down on the beach, skimming flat stones across the water. ‘He looks happy,’ Effi thought out loud.

‘He’s going to be a father,’ Annaliese said matter-of-factly.

Effi spun around, let out a cry of joy, and threw her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful!’

‘Isn’t it?’

She had never seen Annaliese cry before, which considering all they’d been through together, was something of a miracle. ‘And you’re both really happy about it?’ Effi asked, just to be sure.

‘Oh yes. The only hard bit was telling Gerd’s parents, because I knew they’d be thinking that my child should have been their grandchild, and it would only remind them that Gerd was dead. But they were wonderful. They said how pleased they were for me, and I’m sure they meant it.’ Annaliese smiled. ‘So I asked them to be godparents, and that made us all cry.’ She looked across at the future father. ‘I haven’t told Gerhard about that bit yet.’

‘I don’t suppose he believes in God.’

‘No, but then neither do I.’ Annaliese looked up the branches rustling in the breeze. ‘But sometimes I just believe in … I don’t know, in all this life. Inside and out. What else is there?’

Sasa

E
ffi had run into Max Grelling a couple of months earlier, when she and Russell had stopped off at the Honey Trap on Ku’damm for a post-theatre drink. In a beautifully-cut American suit, and with a gorgeous young German blonde on one arm, Grelling had looked the picture of post-war prosperity. Which was hardly surprising. Any member of that shrinking band of Jews still resident in Berlin was entitled to a welter of well-deserved privileges, and a celebrity like Max was entitled to more than most.

He had done more than survive the war in hiding—many had done that—he had been instrumental in helping hundreds of others to escape abroad. An apprentice draughtsman at a Bauhaus design centre before the Nazis rendered such employment illegal, he had taken a long cool look into the future, and taught himself a skill that he knew would be much in demand—forgery. For every ten German Jews now living in exile, Effi reckoned one had an original Grelling framed and hung on a living-room wall. She and Ali had met him on several occasions during the war, picking up a new set of papers when Aslund, for some reason or other, could not. Effi had liked Grelling instantly, and he had taken more than a liking to the much younger Ali. After the war, when Effi had told him of Ali’s marriage and emigration, he had looked heartbroken for at least ten seconds.

He had told her and Russell that he was living on Ku’damm,
across from a bombed-out restaurant that they all remembered, and the day after meeting with Lisa, it didn’t take Effi long to find his apartment. He seemed pleased to see her, and insisted on making them Turkish coffee, something she loved but hadn’t tasted in almost ten years. Considering the ruins visible through his back window, all but one of the rooms were beautifully furnished, the exception being crammed with fully loaded tea chests.

‘Are you leaving?’ she asked.

‘I’m off to Palestine. But not for a few months yet.’

‘Okay,’ she said, ‘a straight question—are you still forging papers?’