terrifying moments of those who were doing the shifting. His horror grew no less, but there was some compensation in the sheer power of the image, and the way it might be used to arouse the conscience of the outside world. He got out his paper and pencil and began writing it out, hammering another journalistic nail in what he fervently hoped would be the Nazis' coffin. If he ever reached Sweden, he wanted the story ready for printing.
Work also took his mind off other things, like a son betrayed and a love left behind.
Russell had used the one in Potsdam Station, but Effi's recent experience with station toilets was hardly encouraging, so she chose the Wertheim's on Leipziger Strasse for her transformation. She knew exactly where the ladies' room was, and the department store was only a few minutes' walk from the theatrical suppliers she intended to visit. Her one big fear was a chance encounter with her shopping-mad sister, but Effi could hardly imagine Zarah spending Christmas Eve afternoon with anyone but Lothar.
A week ago that thought would have reduced her to tears. So she must be getting stronger.
First she had to get to Wertheim's. She would have to leave Prinz-Eugen-Strasse in daylight, without make- up, and with every chance of running into someone on the stairs. It was crazy, but there was no way round it, and she would just have to do what she could. A little dust and household grime to give a wrinkled look around the eyes, a piece of sticking plaster across her upper lip to disguise the shape of her mouth. A hat pulled down to her eyes, a scarf pulled up across the lower lip, a pair of reading glasses. It was a pity it wasn't snowing, but it was cold enough to justify a lot of covering up.
The journey went well. She met no one on the stairs, no one on the street or in the U-Bahn to Leipziger Strasse. The walk to Wertheim's took only a few minutes, the long climb to the secluded toilets on the top floor rather longer - the lifts were all out of order. Ensconced in a cubicle, she unpacked the
She was now a member of the National Socialist Women's Organisation National Leadership. Hardly someone to be trifled with.
Walking to the theatrical suppliers, it suddenly occurred to her that it might have been bombed, or closed down for some other reason. Had she gone to all this trouble, put herself at all this risk, for nothing?
There were lights in the shop window. She was just ten metres away from the door when an actress she knew almost pranced out onto the pavement and turned towards her. The woman gave Effi a single glance, and quickly averted her eyes from the stern expression and its accompanying uniform.
Effi let herself into the shop. There were two women behind the counter, both around forty. They looked like the keenest of filmgoers, but she didn't recognise them from her previous visits. One disappeared into a back room as the other offered a cautious smile of greeting. The uniform was earning its keep.
'I have a list of powders and creams,' Effi began, handing the sheet of paper over. 'There's quite a lot, I'm afraid. It hasn't been officially announced yet, but the Berlin
'Of course,' the woman echoed. She began filling the order, plucking boxes and tubes from various drawers and cabinets.
Effi stared at the photographs covering a large part of the wall behind the counter, each one signed by the star in question. After the war she'd come back with her own.
The woman was checking the items through. 'I think that's everything,' the woman said, completing her check. She looked up at Effi and her face seemed to change.
Here it comes, Effi thought.
'Have you ever met the Fuhrer?' the woman asked.
'Only once,' Effi admitted. 'He was charm itself.'
Fifteen minutes later she was back in the Wertheim's cubicle. After changing back into her normal clothes, she sat on the toilet seat and applied some of the new make-up with the aid of her compact mirror. Satisfied, she let herself out and headed for the U-Bahn, remembering just in time to age her walk. The train was crowded and smelly, but one young soldier insisted on giving her his seat, and when she finally closed the apartment door behind her she felt a quiet surge of triumph.
On Christmas evening, Felix came to tell Russell that a Swedish ship was due in port in less than forty-eight hours. Two days later, the small patch of sky outside his window was beginning to darken when the hotel owner entered with a thin young man named Rainis.
When Russell saw the bicycle, he realised that he'd been half-expecting another ride in the back of a van. 'I haven't been on one of these for twenty years,' he muttered, mostly to himself. With his bag tied on the back, he climbed gingerly into the saddle. A quick shake of Felix's hand, and he was off, wobbling down the street in Rainis' wake.
The two-kilometre journey to the docks took them around the eastern edge of the city centre, and Russell was left with an impression of towers and spires faintly silhouetted against a rapidly darkening sky. There was virtually no traffic, and a Mercedes 260 parked by the side of the road turned out to be empty. By the time they reached the docks all natural light had disappeared, but Riga, unlike Stettin, was still making full use of the artificial variety. Open warehouse doors were squares of bright yellow light, the cranes beyond them lit from below.
There were other cyclists about, and several lorries parked with their lights on. Rainis led Russell away from the lights, the two of them bumping across cobblestone setts and between buildings to reach a dark section of the quayside. Further down the basin a freighter was tied up, the name
'That's your boat,' Rainis whispered.
Russell could see at least two uniforms near the bottom of the gangplank.
'That's all they guard,' the young Latvian said, reading his mind. 'You'll be using the port side.'
Leaning the bicycles against a convenient wall, they walked on down the quayside, keeping close to the buildings until the
Russell waved his thanks, wedged the bag between his knees, and suddenly remembered that he'd left the gun under his pillow back at the hotel. One for the Resistance.
His oarsman was taking the long way round, rowing out beyond the reach of the quayside lights until the
There were no signs of activity on the seaward side of the freighter, which boded well. The apparent lack of a ladder, or any other means of getting himself aboard, was less auspicious; but the oarsman, seeing his confusion, first used two hands to mime a climbing motion, then one to indicate something dropping from the sky. A few moments later the rope ladder landed a few feet away from them, and a short whistle sounded above.
With one hand on the rope and one holding his bag, Russell struggled up the side of the ship, conscious of every scuff and bang which accompanied his laborious progress. He was almost at the top when a strong hand reached down to help him over the railing. As he regained his feet, a grinning young man put a finger to his lips, then pointed off to the right.
Russell nodded his understanding, and followed the man. Judging by the noise, the rear hold was still being loaded, but work had finished on the yellow-lit foredeck, with only the hatches to fasten. Emerging from the shadow of the superstructure, the Swede settled into a crouching walk reminiscent of Groucho Marx, and Russell duly followed him to the edge of the open hold. The Swede pointed his finger once more, this time at an iron ladder leading down. Russell nodded, and swung himself onto the top rung.
The man whispered one word - 'Midnight' - and disappeared from view.
Russell climbed down into the darkened hold, stopping when one foot encountered something solid and allowing his eyes time to adjust. A room full of dark rectangles suggested several layers of packing cases, a theory
