the Gestapo had patrol boats.
'They borrow the Navy's,' he whispered back. 'But only one after dark. Usually. It's better that we don't talk,' he added. 'It carries further than you think.'
The wall to the right disappeared as their basin merged with the next, the one where they'd seen the ship being unloaded on the previous evening. Peering through the gloom Russell thought he could make out two large ships, but no lights were showing, either aboard or on the adjoining quay.
The channel narrowed again as they neared the junction with the Oder, and the water grew choppier, rocking the small boat from side to side. As they turned into the river, the opposing current seemed strong enough to stop them, and Russell had a nightmare vision of being stuck in the same spot until morning. But suddenly, for no reason that he could see, the pressure eased and the skiff resumed its steady progress, albeit more slowly.
He knew from previous visits that the Oder was about a hundred and fifty metres wide, but only the near bank was visible, a long quayside at which several small ships were berthed. There were lights in some of them, and on the quay behind them, but Russell hoped and guessed that their boat would be impossible to see against the darkness of the opposite bank.
A lighted shape appeared ahead, running across his line of vision. It was a tram, he realised, crossing the river. The bridge took form as another smaller light glided across, and as they neared the central piers a match flared above them. It was a man lighting a cigarette, and he was looking down at them.
Gestapo, was Russell's first thought.
'It's downstream,' the man said, loud enough for them to hear.
'The patrol boat,' Andreas explained as they passed under the bridge. Russell breathed a sigh of relief, and asked himself why the comrades hadn't been this well organised when the government of Germany was still up for grabs. The boatman kept to the centre of the stream, out of sight from either bank. There was a surprising amount of traffic along the western side - trams, lorries, even the occasional private car - but no silhouetted pedestrians. The Nikolai Kirche rose out of the gloom, and soon they were passing under the other bridge connecting central Stettin with its Lastadie suburb. Even though he felt wracked with tension, Russell could see something magical in this journey, as they moved unseen through the heart of a living city.
The railway bridge loomed ahead, and beyond that the dark shapes of islands in the river, another bridge, and the long roof of the station rising above the western bank. The boatman steered them into a narrow channel, cut the motor, and drifted the skiff up to a small landing stage. 'This is it,' Andreas said unnecessarily, using one hand to hold the boat against the wooden staging. 'The station is over there, and there are steps up to the bridge at the other end of the path.'
'Thank you,' Russell said, shaking his hand. He offered the boatman a nod of gratitude.
Effi reached over and gave Andreas a quick hug. 'We'll make that film,' she said.
'Good luck,' he told them.
'And you.'
Andreas pushed them off, and the boat put-putted off into the darkness.
The steps were easy to find, and the bridge devoid of traffic. As they walked across to the Stettin side, Russell could feel his muscles tightening. The station was bound to be watched. Were their papers and disguises good enough?
'We must act like ordinary travellers,' he said, as much to himself as to her. 'Look confident. Do what ordinary travellers do. No skulking in the shadows.'
'Yes, husband,' Effi said.
They walked across the Schwedter Ufer and into the station. The small concourse was quite crowded, mostly with soldiers and sailors in uniform, which was probably fortunate. Their train, according to the departure board, was on time.
'The buffet,' Russell said. As they walked across the concourse, he saw no sign of a checkpoint at the tunnel entrance which led to the platforms. There might, of course, be guards waiting at each flight of stairs.
They found a table. The smell of food was inviting, but the queue was long and there was not much more than half an hour until their train's departure. 'Shall we go up now or wait?' he asked her.
'Let's leave it till the last minute,' she said, getting up again. 'I have to spend some time in the ladies.'
'I'll be here.' He watched her walk away, marvelling once again at how well she aged her movement, then leant over to gather an abandoned newspaper from the adjoining table.
After using the toilet, Effi stopped to examine her face in the long mirror behind the washbasins. There hadn't really been enough make-up left to work with, and she seemed to be getting younger again.
A middle-aged woman two basins down was staring at her in the mirror. 'Aren't you Effi Koenen?' the woman asked with barely suppressed excitement.
'No, please,' Effi heard herself say. Looking round, she saw that the cubicles were all open. There was no one else to overhear.
'I'm sorry,' the woman said. 'It must be so difficult having complete strangers come up and talk to you. I won't bother you with questions,' she said, rummaging through her handbag. 'But please, could I have your autograph?' She offered a pleading smile and held out a pencil and some sort of notebook.
It wasn't the look of someone who'd recognised a fugitive. Effi scribbled her name down and handed it back, praying that no one else would come in. 'Please don't tell anyone else that you've seen me,' she said.
'Of course not, and thank you. Thank you so much.' The woman hurried out, no doubt intent on sharing her secret with whatever companions she had.
Effi went back into a cubicle, shut the door and sat down. What was she going to say to John? He was so infuriatingly good at arguing - and this was one argument she had to win.
In the buffet Russell was finding it impossible to concentrate on the newspaper - the events in Russia, Africa and the rest of the wider world had lost their power to engage him. He was like a rat in a maze, he thought: all that mattered was the next turn.
Effi sat down, leaned her head towards him and took one of his hands. 'I'm not coming with you,' she said.
He looked at her blankly. 'What?'
'John, I was just recognised. A fan. A fan who wanted my autograph - she obviously hadn't seen our pictures in the papers. After she was gone I looked in the mirror, and I could recognise myself. The make-up's all gone, and I can't keep a scarf over my face for two days - even if I did there'll be inspections, there are bound to be. We would never get to Riga, but you can and you must.'
Her logic seemed inescapable, but logic had never been something he had associated with her, and it wasn't what he wanted to hear. 'No,' he said desperately. 'We're going together. We'll get there.'
'No, we won't. I'm going back to Berlin. We'll both have a better chance of survival on our own. You must see that.'
'No, I don't. How would you survive in Berlin?'
'As Eva Vollmar. Or Mathilde Sasowski. I don't know, but I'll manage. I
'Of course not, but they'll never believe you.'
'They may want to. A film star who denounces a foreign spy must be good propaganda.'
Russell wanted to argue with her, but after almost a decade together he knew when her mind was made up. Given a few days he might be able to change it, but his train was leaving in thirteen minutes. He felt paralysed by the suddenness of it all.
'John, you know that I love you? And that I'll wait for you?'
'But how...'
'You must catch the train. Please.'
She was right and he knew it. If someone recognised her on the train they would both be trapped, caught, dragged back to Berlin for trial and execution. And someone probably would. They
