He piled six bricks in his arms and staggered back across the road, ears straining for the sounds of an approaching car. Sarah had undone the strings, and they rammed three bricks into each end of the roll.
'Okay,' Russell muttered once they'd rebound the ends. He began lifting one end up towards the chest-high parapet. The canal was just as deep at the sides, and there was less chance of the Gruppenfuhrer catching on a propeller.
Sarah helped him lever the body onto the parapet, and held it in balance while he made sure he had it round the ankles. As they pushed it over, the strain on his arms was almost too much, but he managed to hang on, and to lower it down for another foot or so, until the hidden head was only a metre or so from the water.
He let go. There was a louder splash than he expected, but no lights appeared in the surrounding buildings. He stared down at the surface of the water, half-expecting the body to flop back up, but there was only a flurry of bubbles.
A small indeterminate sound escaped from Sarah's lips.
'Are you all right?' he asked.
'No,' she said. 'But yes.'
Russell took another look round. If someone out there was watching them, he or she would have telephoned the police. 'Let's get out of here,' he said.
They reached Neuenburger Strasse in less than ten minutes. He took her up to his apartment and showed her where everything was. 'I'll bring you some food tomorrow,' he told her, 'and I'll contact our people about getting you out. The tenant below has been called up, so you don't have to worry about moving around, but the bathroom's one floor down... If you do run into anyone just say you're an old friend from...where do you know well?'
'I grew up in Hamburg.'
'Then say you're an old friend from Hamburg, just visiting for a few days. Nothing else.'
She looked utterly lost, and he felt guilty leaving her, but Effi would be worried sick. He could telephone her from downstairs, but...
'I'll be all right,' she said, and tried to look as if she would.
He took the offered release. Twenty minutes later he was letting himself into Effi's apartment, feeling like he'd lived several lifetimes in a few hours. She let out a cry of relief and burrowed into his arms.
Russell's sleep was full of dreams, most of them anxious. He woke in the strange darkness of the blacked-out room and lay there on his back, compulsively listing all the things that could still go wrong. The Standartenfuhrer might have recognized someone - Wilhelm or one of his friends. Sternkopf could be down at Prinz Albrecht-Strasse, leafing through photographs of the state's enemies. Wilhelm and the others could have been stopped on the way back to Friedrichshain and taken to the cellars for interrogation. Sarah Grostein's maid might have found the bloodstain, or the body might have jettisoned its Semitic ballast and floated to the surface, making sense of what someone had seen in the middle of the night. In fact two separate police units could be out on the porch right now, arguing over which had precedence.
'Jesus,' Russell murmured. He might as well turn himself in and be done with it.
Effi stirred beside him. 'We're still here,' she said sleepily.
Russell found himself smiling. 'We are, aren't we?'
Over coffee they discussed the day ahead. During his drive home six hours earlier, Russell had decided to tell Effi about Sarah Grostein. The latter could hardly be compromised any more than she already was, and calling on the comrades to get her out was a decision he thought Effi should share. No one had told him that his and Effi's exit voucher was a one-time offer, but he couldn't help thinking that Moscow was unlikely to sanction unlimited escapes. If Sarah went, their chances of a similar exit were probably reduced.
Effi , of course, saw no dilemma. 'If they get her, they'll torture her,' she told Russell.
'Probably.'
'And yours will be one of the names she has to give,' Effi added, reinforcing her instinctive generosity with that cold calculation which still surprised him.
They went their separate ways, she to a meeting at the studio offices, he to the Adlon. After calling Thomas on the hotel phone with news of Miriam's rescue, he walked across to the bar. Work was low on the list of his priorities, but abandoning it completely would be foolishly suspicious. As it was, there was nothing new to report. No prominent Pole had arrived, and none was expected. One of the correspondents had been out walking the streets and riding the trams. Berliners, he said, were unanimous twice over. All of them expected the war that none of them wanted.
Russell dedicated the rest of the day to his own survival. He withdrew a large sum of cash from his bank, used his ration card to buy groceries at the Wertheim food hall, and drove down to Neuenburger Strasse with them. Frau Heidegger intercepted him, and the usual cup of undrinkable coffee was accompanied by a litany of complaints. Her knees were bad, the rations inadequate, and, to top it all, Beiersdorfer had threatened her with the police. 'The fool says someone stole his helmet,' she said, 'and as I'm the only other person with a key it must have been me. What an idiot! I mean, what would I want with his stupid helmet?'
Russell made his escape, grateful that Sarah's presence had so far gone unnoticed. She seemed unnaturally listless when he arrived, but made a visible effort to perk up as he explained what he intended doing. She had only made one trip to the bathroom, she said, and that in the middle of the night. He promised to drop in again on the following day.
From Neuenburger Strasse he drove east towards Neukolln. He had considered following instructions and calling Zembski on the telephone, but why risk a Gestapo listener? Privacy was easier to ensure in person. The photographic studio on Berlinerstrasse was open but empty - the river of parents bringing sons in uniform for a farewell portrait had presumably dried up, now that the boys in question were all leaning over the Polish frontier. The fat Silesian emerged from his small office and smiled when he saw who it was. 'Herr Russell. Long time, no see.'
'It's good to see you too,' Russell said, offering his hand.
'Do you need your picture taken again?' Zembski asked. Russell had last visited the studio to pick up a fake passport which the photographer had created for him.
'I was given your telephone number by mutual friends,' he said softly. 'They said to ask for Martin.'
Zembski looked surprised, but only for a second. 'You need to get out?' he asked, glancing over Russell's shoulder as if fearing to find the Gestapo in close pursuit.
'Not me. A woman. Tell them it's 'The Violinist'. They'll know who she is. Tell them she has to get out now - there's a body involved. And tell them she's bringing them some useful information,' he added, hoping it was true.
The door opened behind them - a middle-aged couple. 'I'll only be a moment,' the Silesian told them, and turned back to Russell. 'Your photographs should be ready tomorrow,' he said. 'If you call in the afternoon, I'll let you know.'
Russell left the studio and walked down Berliner Strasse in search of lunch. Most of his fellow-Berliners were wearing resigned expressions that morning, but then they usually did. He ordered a bowl of potato soup and sausages at the first bar he came to, washed it down with a beer, and stepped reluctantly back into the summer sunshine. He spent a few minutes in the Hanomag working out logistics, and then headed north towards the Schade Printing Works. Leaving the car in a street nearby, he took one tram to Alexanderplatz and another out to Friedrichshain, arriving at the park almost half an hour early for his meeting with Wilhelm Isendahl. He sat on the agreed bench and reflected that while Wilhelm had performed brilliantly the previous evening, nothing would persuade him to work with the man again. Wilhelm was too damn sure of himself already, and each dart he planted in the neck of the Nazi bull would make him more so. He would come to feel invincible, and then the bull would get him.
Watching the young man walk up the path towards him, Russell hoped he was wrong. Wilhelm was his usual calm, efficient self. The van was parked opposite the gate, he said, complete with original number plates - the others were in the Spree. The four young women were staying with two different families. It had seemed better to keep them in pairs, so each girl had someone who understood what they'd been through. The one Russell had brought out - Miriam - had still not spoken, and spent most of her time staring into space. Ursel, Inge and Rachel were in better shape, though all seemed prone to sudden fits of weeping. Russell had been right - their captors had told the girls that if any of them tried to escape they would all be sent to concentration camps for having sexual relations with aryans.
