'There's some money in the
They agreed to meet in a week's time. Russell walked out to the gate, and stood for a while scanning the road for possible watchers. Satisfied, he strode towards the vehicle, anxiously searching for the telltale signs of a painted-out cross on the side of the vehicle. There were none.
He drove the van back across town to the Schade Printing Works. Thomas was in his office, looking as tired as Russell felt. He came out from behind his desk and embraced his friend, a glint of tears in his eyes. Once outside in the yard Russell gave him a blow-by-blow account of the rescue. Finding Miriam in her cupboard had Thomas closing his eyes in anguished disbelief, the appearance of the Standartenfuhrer had him opening them wide with alarm. 'But wouldn't he recognize you again?'
'I don't think so. He only saw us by torchlight, and we were disguised.'
'God, I hope you're right.'
'You're not the only one.'
'Where are the girls?'
'With families in Friedrichshain. Miriam's in a bad way. She hasn't said a word since we found her. I don't think she'll be going anywhere for quite a while.'
'We should tell her parents that she's alive, at least.'
'I will. I'll write to them at the address they gave me.' Russell looked at his watch. 'I have to pick up your lorry in Wedding. I should be back in an hour or so.'
'Where's your car?'
'Around the corner.'
'Then why don't you drive us both up there and I'll bring the lorry back?'
'Sold.'
Half an hour later they parted outside Hunder's gates. Russell followed the lorry as far as Lehrter Station, where he stopped off in search of coffee and a newspaper. The main buffet had none of the former, thanks to a storeroom robbery that afternoon - someone was stocking up for a future black market. The newspaper was full of quirky, inconsequential tidbits, as if the editor was clearing the decks for something altogether more serious.
He drove home by way of Altonaer Strasse. Sarah Grostein's house was bathed in the last rays of the evening sun, a picture of urban serenity. If any of Gruppenfuhrer Hochgesang's friends had come looking for him, they'd had the good manners not to break the door down. And if the body had flopped to the surface of the Landwehrkanal, the police were probably still trying to identify it.
Effi looked up anxiously as he came through her door, but relaxed when she saw it was him. 'Is everything all right?' she asked.
'So far.'
They went out to eat, returning in time to hear a special news broadcast. New proposals had been presented to the Polish Government, the official voice claimed. These were then outlined - Danzig's incorporation into the Reich, a plebiscite to decide the future of the Polish Corridor, extraterritorial roads and railways for the nation that lost that vote. But - and here the voice seemed torn between disbelief and righteous indignation - the German Government had received no reply to these eminently reasonable proposals. The Fuhrer, it seemed, had 'waited two days in vain for the arrival of a Polish negotiator.'
'As if he had anything better to do,' Effi said contemptuously.
When they turned on the radio next morning, they discovered that Germany was now at war. The Polish Army had supposedly attacked a radio station in German Silesia, and the Fuhrer had responded with characteristic restraint, invading Poland from north, west and south. He would be explaining his actions to the assembled Reichstag later that morning.
Three hours later, Russell and his fellow American journalists gathered on the pavement outside the Adlon to watch the motorcade go by. September 1st was another bright sunny day, but only a handful of Berliners had ventured forth to cheer their leader.
'Where's Gavrilo Princip when you need him?' was Slaney's comment.
The loudspeakers were soon crackling, the familiar voice echoing down the wide streets of the old city. The Czechs had turned into Poles, but the plot remained the same. Whoever they were, their behaviour - even their very existence - was intolerable. He had ordered the German armed forces across the border, and had himself donned 'the uniform of a soldier' until victory was assured.
There were chants of Sieg Heil, but the Reichstag deputies were out of practice - there was none of the rhythmic baying that Sportspalast audiences excelled at. It would be an hour or more before copies of the speech were distributed, so most of the journalists headed indoors in search of a drink. Russell called Zembski on one of the public telephones, and was told that his film wasn't ready - he should try again tomorrow.
He drove down to Neuenburger Strasse, where Frau Heidegger was keen to discuss the coming hostilities. It took him twenty minutes to extricate himself, and another ten to help Siggi carry a new mattress up to Dagmar's apartment. He found Sarah reading one of Paul's John Kling detective novels, and told her that German forces were heading into Poland.
'Have the British and French declared war?' she asked.
'Not yet.' He told her that he'd made contact with the comrades, and was waiting for instructions.
He took the long way home, stopping off at the Potsdam and Stettin stations to see what trains were running. There were no international services leaving from the former, but the latter was packed with foreigners trying to get places on the trains still running into Denmark. Domestic services seemed to be running more or less as usual.
He bought several papers at Stettin Station and skimmed through them, expecting the worst. But there were no photographs of missing Gruppenfuhrers, no reports of floating corpses in the Landwehrkanal.
He was about to return home when the sirens sounded. The people on the station concourse looked at each other, wondering if it was exercise, and then shrugged and headed for one of the station shelters. Russell went with them, moved more by journalistic curiosity than any real fear of Polish bombers over Berlin. He found himself in a well-lit underground store-room, surrounded by a hundred or so Germans of varying ages and classes. Those who spoke did so in whispers, and only, it seemed, to people they already knew. Most read papers or books, but some just sat there. There was little sign of anger or resentment, but faint surprise featured on many of the faces, as if each were silently asking, 'How did it come to this?'
Saturday September 2nd dawned without a British or French declaration of war. Notes had arrived the previous evening demanding the suspension of German operations in Poland, but opinions were divided in the Adlon Bar as to whether the attendant threats to 'fulfil obligations' constituted a real ultimatum. Mussolini was rumoured to be organising another Munich-style conference which, the cynics claimed, would provide London and Paris with all the excuses they needed to leave another ally in the lurch. Russell's instinct told him that the British and French were just taking their time, but experience warned him that it rarely paid to over-estimate the honour of governments.
Later that morning, he telephoned Zembski.
'Yes, your pictures are ready,' the Silesian told him.
'That's good,' Russell said looking at his watch. 'I'll be there in half an hour.'
The city's traffic was already thinning with the restriction on civilian petrol purchase, and the drive took only twenty-five minutes. Zembski was with a customer, a woman dissatisfied with her daughter's photographic portrait. The Silesian was insisting on the accuracy of his portrayal, and Russell came to his assistance, leaning over the woman's shoulder and remarking what a lovely daughter she had. She gave him a suspicious look, but grudgingly paid up. The door pinged shut behind her.
Zembski lowered his voice, more out of habit than need. 'Your friend must travel to Bitburg - it's a small town in the west. She should check into the Ho-henzollern Hotel, or one of the others if that's full. There's no time to arrange new papers, so she'll have to register in her real name. It's a risk, but I think the authorities are going to be busy with other matters for a while.'
'Thank God for war,' Russell said dryly.
'Indeed,' Zembski agreed. 'She must wait to be contacted. It may take several days, perhaps even longer. It's impossible to say.' He reached under the counter and came up with an envelope. 'Your photographs of the
