guessed. Why hadn't he warned her? Embarrassment or shame, she wondered. She hoped it was shame.
She resumed her watch at the window. Silesian fields, meandering rivers, village stations that the train ignored. It stopped at a large town - Sagan, according to the station sign. She had never heard of it, nor of Guben an hour later. Frankfurt, which she remembered from a school geography lesson, was the first thing that day to be smaller than expected.
The last hour seemed quicker, as if the train was eager to get home. By the time the first outskirts of Berlin appeared, the sun was sinking towards the horizon, flashing between silhouetted buildings and chimneys, reflecting off sudden stretches of river. Roads and railways ran in all directions.
Her train ran under a bridge as another train thundered over it, and began to lose speed. A wide street lay below her window, lined with elegant houses, full of automobiles. Moments later a soot-stained glass roof loomed to swallow the train, which smoothly slowed to a halt on one of the central platforms. 'Schlesischer Bahnhof!' a voice shouted. Silesian Station.
She pulled down her suitcase, queued in the corridor to leave the coach, and finally stepped down onto the platform. The glass roof was higher, grander, than the one at Breslau, and for several moments she just stood there, looking up, marvelling at the sheer size of it all, as passengers brushed by her en route to the exit stairs. She waited while the crowd eased, watching a strange loco-motiveless train leave from another platform, and then started down. A large concourse came into view, milling with people, surrounded with all sorts of stalls and shops and offices. She stopped at the bottom, uncertain what to do. Where was Uncle Benjamin?
A man was looking at her, a questioning expression on his face. He was wearing a uniform, but not, she thought, a military one. He seemed too old to be a soldier.
He came towards her, smiling and raising his peaked cap. 'I'm here to collect you,' he said.
'My uncle sent you?' she asked.
'That's right.'
'Is he all right?'
'He's fine. Nothing to worry about. Some urgent business came up, that's all.' He reached out a hand for her suitcase. 'The car's outside.'
Into the Cage
John Russell lifted his glass, reluctantly tipped the last drops of malt down his throat, and placed it ever so gently down on the polished wooden bar. He could have another, he supposed, but only if he woke the barman. Twisting on his stool, he found an almost depopulated ballroom. A threesome at a distant table was all that remained - the blonde torch singer who had been making everyone nostalgic for Dietrich and her two uniformed admirers. She was looking from one to the other as if she was trying to decide between them. Which she probably was.
It was gone three o'clock. His twelve-year-old son Paul had been asleep in their cabin for almost five hours, but Russell still felt too restless for bed. A turn round the deck, he told himself, a phrase which suggested ease of movement, not the obstacle course of couples in thrall to passion which usually presented itself at this hour. Why didn't they use their cabins, for God's sake? Because their wives and husbands were sleeping in them?
He was getting obsessive, he thought, as he took the lift up to the boat deck. Four weeks away from his girlfriend Effi and all he could think of was sex. He smiled to himself at the thought. Thirty more hours at sea, five from Hamburg to Berlin.
It was a beautiful night - still warm, the slightest of breezes, a sky over-flowing with stars. He started towards the bow, staring out across the darkly rolling sea, wondering when the French and British coastlines would become visible. Soon, he guessed - they were due to make their stop at Southampton before midday.
He stopped and leant his back against the railings, gazing up at the smoke from the twin funnels as it drifted across the Milky Way. He hoped Effi would like her presents, the red dress in particular. He had gifts for Paul's mother Ilse and her brother Thomas, things that could no longer be found in Hitler's never-ending Reich, things - as the popular phrase had it - from 'outside the cage'.
He sighed. Nazi Germany was everything its enemies said it was, and often worse, but he would still be glad to be back. America had been wonderful, and he had finally managed to swap his British passport for an American one, but Berlin was his home. Their home.
He turned to face the sea. Away on the distant horizon a tiny light was flashing at regular intervals. A lighthouse, presumably. An extremity of France. Of Europe.
It really was time for bed. He walked back down the starboard side and slowly descended seven decks' worth of stairs. As he let himself into their cabin he noticed the folded sheet of paper which had been pushed under the door. He picked it up, backed out into the corridor, and studied it under the nearest light. It was a four-word telegram from Effi's sister Zarah: 'Effi arrested by Gestapo'.
Light was edging round the porthole curtain when he finally got to sleep, and two hours later he was woken, accidentally-on-purpose, by his son. 'It's England,' Paul said excitedly, wiping his breath from the glass. The Dorset coast, Russell guessed, or maybe Hampshire. The town they were passing looked large enough for Bournemouth.
Sitting in the bathroom, he wondered whether it would be quicker to leave the ship at Southampton. One train to London, another to Dover, a boat to Ostend, more trains across Belgium and Germany. It might save a couple of hours, but seemed just as likely to add a few. And he very much doubted whether the Europa carried copies of the relevant timetables. He would just have to cope with twenty-four hours of inaction.
At breakfast the elderly couple who had shared their table since New York seemed even more cheerful than usual. 'Another beautiful day,' Herr Faeder announced, unaware that his upraised fork was dripping egg yolk onto the tablecloth. 'We've been really lucky on this voyage. Last year we were trapped in our cabins for most of the trip,' he added for about the fourth time. Russell grunted his agreement, and received a reproachful look from Paul.
'I can't wait to get home, though,' Frau Faeder said. 'I have a feeling this is going to be a beautiful summer.'
'I hope you're right,' Russell said amicably. The Faeders probably came from another planet, but they'd been pleasant enough company.
Once they'd hurried off to claim their favourite deck chairs, he poured himself another coffee and considered what to tell Paul. The truth, he supposed. 'A telegram came for me last night,' he began. 'After you were asleep.'
His son, engrossed in chasing the record for the largest amount of jam ever loaded onto a single piece of toast, looked up in alarm.
'Effi's been arrested,' Russell told him.
Paul's jaw dropped open. 'What for?' he eventually asked.
'I don't know. The telegram just said she'd been arrested.'
'That's...' He searched for an adequate word. 'That's terrible.'
'I hope not.'
'I expect she said something,' Paul volunteered after a few moments' thought. 'That's not very serious. Not like murder or treason.'
Russell couldn't help smiling. 'You're probably right.'
'What are you going to do?'
'I can't do anything until we get back. And then...I don't know.' Kick up a fuss, he thought, but better not to tell Paul that.
'I'm sorry, Dad.'
'Me too. Well, there's nothing we can do now. Let's get up on deck and watch the world go by.'
As Herr Faeder had said, it was a beautiful day. The Europa, as they discovered on reaching the bow, was in mid-Solent. 'That's Lymington,' Paul said, after consulting his carefully-copied version of the large chart below decks, 'and that's Cowes,' he added, pointing off to the right. Many small boats were in view, a couple of yachts to the south, white sails vivid against the darker island, a flurry of fishing craft to the north, sunlight flashing off their cabin windows. Only the squawking gulls disturbed the peace.
