Stattin Station (7 page)

Leonore answered the door, apprehension shifting to relief when she saw who it was. Martin leapt up to offer his right hand, his left clutching the copy of
Faust
he seemed to be forever reading. 'Come in, come in,' he urged. 'It's good to see you. I'm fed up with talking to other Jews - their only topic of conversation is themselves, and how terrible everything is.'

'Everything
is
terrible,' Russell said, refusing Leonore's armchair and sitting himself down at the table. As if to prove his point, she picked up the coat she'd obviously been working on and continued with her task of re-attaching a yellow star.

'Yes, but it serves no purpose to talk of nothing else. Everything passes, even these... gentlemen. America will enter the war, and that will be that. It's strange - the last war they entered, I was a boy shooting at them. This time I shall invite every last one of them around for dinner.'

Russell laughed. 'I think Leonore might have something to say about that.'

'Chance would be a fine thing,' Leonore said. She was upset about something, Russell thought.

'It will happen,' Martin insisted. 'Tell me, what's the news? Since they took our radios away we have no idea what's actually happening.'

Russell gave him the edited version, as seen from London and Washington - the Russian war in the balance, the looming breakdown in Japanese-American relations.

'Surely the Japanese won't attack America?' Martin mused. 'How could they hope to win such a war?'

'Most people think they'll attack the British and the Dutch, and hope that the Americans stay out,' Russell told him.

They went over the Japanese options until even Martin's curiosity was exhausted. 'Where's Ali?' Russell asked Leonore, seizing his chance. It was Ali who had introduced him to her parents, after Thomas had taken her on as a bookkeeper at his Treptow factory.

'At the cinema,' Leonore admitted.

'Without her star,' Martin added proudly.

'Without her star,' Leonore echoed. 'My Aunt Trudi was taken,' she went on. 'I think you met her once. She lived in Wedding on her own, insisted on it, and her health's been good for a woman over seventy. She got the notification last week, and she left the day before yesterday as far as we know. I wanted to see her off, but she refused; she said she didn't want a big fuss, but I think she was afraid they'd take me too.'

'A train did leave the night before last,' Russell said, but thought better of admitting that he'd watched it go.

'Then she's gone.'

'Many things are terrible,' Martin said, 'but not everything. Frau Thadden, the woman upstairs, is a real friend to us - she doesn't think any less of us because we are Jews. And a few nights ago a policeman banged on our door. We feared the worst, but he wanted to tell us to pull our blackout curtain tighter - some light was showing. If some of his colleagues saw it, he said, then we'd be in trouble, and he didn't want that. You see,' he said, turning to his wife, 'there are many good Germans.'

'I know there are,' she said. 'But Aunt Trudi is still gone.'

Seeing his stricken expression, she relented, and gave him a wonderful smile. After all, Russell realised, the heart that clutched at straws was the heart she'd fallen in love with.

'Have any of your friends heard any more from those who've been sent East?' he asked.

'Yes,' Leonore said. 'Two of them. I wrote it down as you asked,' she added, taking down a recipe book. 'It seemed a good hiding place,' she explained, leafing through the pages. 'Here we are. Two letters from Lodz. One from someone's uncle who left on October 17th, the other from an old friend who left on the 25th. Both said they were fine, and not to worry about them.'

'And they were in the right handwriting?'

'Yes, I asked.'

'Well, that's good news,' Russell thought aloud.

'Better than it might be,' Leonore agreed absent-mindedly. 'This sounds like Ali,' she said, relief in her voice, and a few seconds later the seventeen year-old let herself into the flat. She was pleased to see Russell, but clearly disappointed that he hadn't brought Effi. 'She's just finishing a film,' Russell started to say, only to be interrupted by the rising whine of the air raid sirens.

Martin looked at his watch. 'They're early tonight,' he complained. 'Let's ignore it for once,' he added, without conviction. Leonore was already reaching for her overcoat, and Ali was pulling her jacket with the star out of her bag. Martin picked up the suitcase that was already packed for such eventualities, and they all tramped down the stairs. Outside, a barely visible procession was heading down the street towards the shelter. Looking up at an impenetrable sky Russell reckoned the RAF needed better weather forecasters - the chances of hitting anything relevant on a night like this had to be zero.

The Jews had been allocated their own segregated area at one end of the basement shelter, about a sixth of the space for almost half of those present. Russell ignored the local block warden's direction and joined them, almost hoping for a row. The warden restricted himself to a nasty look, and went back to ticking off arrivals on a long list.

The shelter itself reflected the poverty of the neighbourhood. Old wooden benches lined the sandbagged walls, along with a few double-decker cots for the children. The ceiling had been recently reinforced with new beams, but the provision of fire extinguishers and pick-axes showed a lack of confidence in the cellar's ability to survive a building collapse. A couple of tables, several kerosene lanterns and a single pail of water completed the inventory.

All around Russell, families were settling in, mothers putting their youngest to bed and entreating their older siblings to entertain themselves as quietly as possible with whatever toys had been brought. Those adults spared the responsibilities of childcare were taking out books, shuffling cards or, in several cases, staring forlornly into space. His list apparently complete, the block warden was working the lever on the air suction pump, and staring malevolently at Russell. Look at me, his expression seemed to say, expelling the stench of the Jews and sucking in good German air.

Russell gave him a big smile, and went back to people he cared about. Ali was giving two young Jewish girls a lesson in how to play skat, while her mother just sat with her back to the wall, eyes closed. Martin, as usual, was eager to talk about how the war was going, and how soon it might end. After about ten minutes the flak opened up, first the loud cracks of those on roofs in the nearby government districts, then the deep boom of those in the huge flak towers. There were two of the latter - the old one in the Tiergarten and the recently completed monstrosity in Friedrichshain Park - and by Russell's reckoning their current shelter was halfway between them. As safe as it got, at least when the sky was clear; on a night like this it probably didn't matter - both gunners below and bombers above would be aiming blind.

The guns fell silent after forty-five minutes, and the all-clear sounded fifteen minutes after that. Children were woken or carried home sleeping, card games abandoned and bags re-packed. Russell said goodnight to the Blumenthals and walked briskly down to Oranienburger Strasse. Searchlights were still nervously scanning the clouds, casting a dull yellow glow across the city, and for once he could see where he was going.

The last ones went out as he reached Borse Station, returning Berlin to its customary gloom. From the elevated Stadtbahn platform only one fire was visible, a kilometre or more to the north-west, somewhere close to Stettin Station. It seemed pathetic change for so much expenditure of effort and fuel, not to mention the sundry lives that had inevitably been lost - one or two plane crews perhaps, a handful of Berliners killed by bombs or falling shrapnel, the rising number of rape-murders committed under cover of the blackout.

It was almost midnight when he reached home, and Effi, as expected, was asleep. Less predictably, she had left a note asking him to wake her. And when he saw the communication which lay underneath it, he understood why. The Gestapo wanted to see him. At their Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse headquarters. In just over ten hours time.

He walked into the bedroom, sat down on the bed and shook her gently by the shoulder. 'You wanted me to wake you.'

'Yes,' she said sleepily. 'The note. Do you know what it's about?'

'Probably my visit to Zembski's studio. I don't think there's anything to worry about. If it was anything serious they would have waited for me.' 'That's what I hoped. Give me a kiss.'

He did so.

'And come to bed.'

He got undressed and climbed in, expecting that she'd gone back to sleep. But she hadn't.

The sky was still leaden on the following morning. Russell spent twenty minutes vainly searching for a particular jacket, then ate a desultory breakfast at the Zoo Station buffet. After a five-minute journey on the U-Bahn had brought him to Bismarckstrasse, he walked through several backstreets to Knieriem's old house. There was no sign of life within, but one of the neighbours eventually emerged. Yes, she replied in response to his question, Herr Knieriem did still live there, but he always left very early for work.

Russell walked back to the U-Bahn at Bismarckstrasse, and caught an eastbound train to Potsdamer Platz. Reaching street level he walked along the back of the FUrstenhof Hotel with the intention of turning into Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. This route was cordoned off, and a group of Russian POWs were waiting under guard at the end of a side street. An unexploded bomb, Russell assumed. Someone had told him that POWs were used to defuse them.

He retraced his steps and almost ran the longer route around the Air Ministry - it didn't pay to be late for a Gestapo summons. The grey five-storey megalith loomed into view, and as he approached the double doors rain began to fall. It seemed a poor omen.

The reception area was little changed since his last summons in 1939, the usual mishmash of Greek columns, heavy Victorian curtains and Prussian bronzed eagles. The giant swastika had disappeared, replaced by a huge bulletin board bearing the Party's quotation of the week. The current incumbent was more long-winded than usual: 'Just as our ancestors did not receive the soil on which we stand today as a gift from heaven, but rather through hard work, so also today as well as in the future, our soil and with it our lives depend not on the grace of some other people, but only on the power of a successful sword.' The bracketed 'Words of our Fuhrer' was somewhat redundant.

A Rottenfuhrer in Gestapo dress uniform sat alone behind the huge reception desk. Russell showed him the summons, and was asked politely enough to take one of the seats beneath a portrait of the uniformed Adolf. He did so, and told himself for the twentieth time that morning that there was nothing to worry about. None of his current activities were illegal. The Gestapo might frown on his attempts to find out what was happening to Berlin's Jews, but the Nazis were making no real secret of their persecutions and deportations, and gathering - as opposed to publishing such information could hardly be considered a crime. His links with American Intelligence were sanctioned by the Abwehr, a veritable pillar of the military establishment. As far as he could tell, he had done nothing illegal since 1939, and the Gestapo must have better things to do than investigate crimes that might or might not have been committed more than two years ago.

So why did he feel like vacating his bowels? Because he had seen the corridor of grey cells that lay beneath this marble floor, and had actually visited Effi in one of them. Because he had been treated, for just a few minutes, to a world of screams and whimpers and even more ominous silence. Because he knew what the bastards were capable of. Because Zembski might be down there right now.

Another five minutes passed before a second Rottenfuhrer arrived to lead him, via lift and several short corridors, to a door on the top floor. His escort knocked, received an invitation to enter, and gestured Russell to do so. There were two men inside, one seated in uniform, one standing in what seemed an expensively tailored suit. In most other respects they looked remarkably similar. Both were in their thirties, with greased blond hair swept back from their foreheads; they could have passed for contestants in a Heydrich look-alike contest, in the unlikely event that one was ever held. Neither would have won, however, since both lacked Nazi Germany's great unmentionable, Heydrich's classically Jewish nose.

'I am Hauptsturmfuhrer Leitmaritz,' said the seated man, indicating the seat that he expected Russell to occupy. 'Of the
Geheime Staatspolizei
,' he added formally.

'Obersturmbannfuhrer Giminich,' the other man said in response to Russell's questioning look. 'Of the
Sicherheitsdienst
,' he added, with what might have been interpreted as a malicious smile.

Happy days are here again, Russell thought to himself. 'So how can I help you?' he asked pleasantly.

'By answering a few questions,' the Hauptsturmfuhrer said shortly. He was peering short-sightedly at the document in front of him, and Russell would have bet money there were spectacles in his desk drawer. Over the man's shoulder he could see a veil of smoke over Anhalter Station half-masking the distant Kreuzberg. The rain must have stopped.

'You told a Gestapo officer at the Zembski photographic studio that you had not been there since the beginning of the war.'

'That is correct,' Russell replied.

'And your reason for going there this week was to have a photograph of your son enlarged?'

'Yes.' Obersturmbannfuhrer Giminich was now pacing to and fro behind Russell's chair. A tried and tested tactic of intimidation, Russell thought. It worked.

'Did you ever meet with Herr Zembski socially? A drink, perhaps.'

'No, it was a purely professional relationship.'

'"Was"?' Giminich asked. 'Have you any reason to think that Zembski is dead?'

'None at all. The Gestapo officer at the studio told me he had gone out of business and returned to Silesia. So our professional relationship is presumably over.'