hands on Sullivan's papers, but now that the Gestapo had abandoned all pretence of following the diplomatic rules there was nothing he could actually do.
'I'll go to Strohm,' he said. 'My railwayman,' he added, remembering he had never told Effi the name. 'He may be able to help us, either with getting hold of some papers, or even with getting us out of the country.'
'That sounds good,' she agreed, deciding to share in his confidence. They had to remain positive, or they were lost. She took a peek round the corner of the window screen. 'There's not going to be an air raid tonight, is there?'
'Not unless the British have completely lost their senses.'
'Good. We can wait until morning before turning you into my older brother...'
'Your brother!?'
'My husband died some years ago, and I'm much too old for a fancy man.' She thought for a moment. 'We should probably leave something to suggest that you're sleeping in here, just in case we have visitors.'
'Can't we just bolt the door?'
'We can at night. But it'll look a bit suspicious during the day.'
'You're probably right,' he admitted.
'You know your English saying about clouds having a golden lining?'
'Silver.'
'Whichever. Well, I don't have to get up at half past four in the morning. The limousine driver will bang on our door in vain.'
'The neighbours will be ecstatic.'
She laughed, the first time she had done so that evening. 'I think I'm ready for bed,' she said. 'Not that I think I'll sleep.'
She did though, much to Russell's surprise. If the truth were told, she had amazed him almost daily since their first meeting almost eight years before. He lay awake in the dark unfamiliar room, marvelling at her resourcefulness, fearful of what the future held for them both. At least they still had each other. He told himself how lucky he had been to meet and know her, to be loved by her. All in all, he decided, he had enjoyed a fairly charmed forty-two years on the planet. He had grown up in a rich country at peace; he had, unlike so many of his friends, survived the horror of the trenches with both body and mind intact. He had been there in the thick of things after the war, when the world seemed dizzy with the hope of something better. That dream might have died, but he wouldn't have missed the dreaming. He had mostly enjoyed his work; he had her and a wonderful, healthy son.
The trouble was, he wanted another forty-two years.
He could just about envisage an escape, but the chances were thin. Better of course than those of the Jews, now that Heydrich and Co. were ordering indicator-free pesticides in vast quantities. Europe's Jews looked doomed. Even if Moscow survived, if the Soviets held out and the Americans entered the war against Germany before the year was out, the Nazis would still have time for a killing spree that sane people would struggle to find imaginable. He thought about the briefcase sitting in the other room, and Sullivan's handwritten postscript to all the proof of corporate perfidy. Would the governments in London, Washington and Moscow be convinced? And even if they were, would they care?
They woke together, a sign of change if ever there was one. He made them cups of ersatz coffee and told her what he'd found in Sullivan's briefcase. She sat there, staring into space and wondering at her own lack of surprise.
'We need a newspaper,' Russell announced, once they'd done the usual ablutions and eaten their usual breakfast. 'We need to know if all Berlin is looking for us, or only the Gestapo.'
She greyed his hair and eyebrows, lined his face, and fixed the small moustache, assuring him that the latter wouldn't fall off if he sneezed. 'When we do come to take it off, you'll realise how firmly it's attached,' she added ominously. She also insisted on his wearing gloves and the woolly hat. His head wound was healing faster than he expected, but the tiny lawn in his meadow of hair was something of a giveaway.
'I'll do myself while you're out,' she said, handing him a pair of keys. 'You remember who you are?'
'Rolf Vollmar. From Gelsenkirchen,' he said promptly. 'My house was bombed out by the British, and I'm staying with my sister Eva until I'm fully recovered.'
'Good,' she said. 'Do you know how to get back to the U-Bahn station?'
'I'm sure I can find it.'
'Right outside the door. Then left, right and left again.'
He let himself out and descended the stairs, feeling more than a little nervous. He knew how good Effi was at make-up, how long she had practised the difficult art of using theatrical make-up outside the theatre, but he still found it hard to believe that people would be taken in by his disguise.
There was no sign of the
He walked towards the first turning, taking care not to slip on a patch of ice - this was no time for breaking a bone. Effi's insistence on sharing whatever fate had in store had meant a lot to him, but in the cold light of morning he found himself wondering how selfish he was being. Should he just take off, take a local train away from Berlin, and try working his way towards a border in short and hopefully inconspicuous leaps? He might get near enough to try a night crossing on foot. It was possible.
But would it save her? Probably not. They would probably arrest her and torture her. If by some miracle he got out, the Gestapo wouldn't just smile, admit defeat, and move on; that wasn't their style. They'd want someone to punish, and she would be available.
Or was he just frightened of striking out alone?
He didn't know. He would try with Strohm, but he wasn't hopeful. He thought Strohm would agree to carry the message, but the chances of a swift reply, let alone a positive one, seemed remote. The most likely outcome was a long and dangerous wait culminating in refusal. Why would the comrades rush to help him? Unlike two years ago, he had nothing to offer them. They weren't interested in the perfidy of American corporations; they took that for granted.
Reaching the wide Mullerstrasse, he could see the kiosk outside the Leopoldplatz U-Bahn station. The level of traffic reminded him of a prewar Sunday, and only a handful of pedestrians were out on the pavements. A stiff breeze was funnelling down the street, and he instinctively placed two fingers over the false moustache to hold it in place.
When he reached the kiosk the proprietor, an old man wearing a woolly hat remarkably similar to his own was deep in conversation with what looked like a regular customer. He paused to serve Russell, who remembered at the last moment that the
'You won't find the latest news in there,' the regular customer volunteered, causing Russell to look up with something approaching alarm.
'The Japanese have attacked the Americans,' the old proprietor said mournfully.
'In Hawaii,' the customer added. 'Their big naval base there.'
'When?' Russell asked.
'Yesterday, I think. The man on the radio wasn't too clear. I mean, it's probably the middle of the night there now, but whether it's yesterday night or tomorrow night I couldn't tell you.'
Russell couldn't help smiling - he had never got the hang of the International Date Line himself. 'But the Americans haven't declared war on us?'
'Not yet,' the customer said cheerfully.
Effi was going through the normal motions, bathing in what seemed ample hot water, but feeling far from normal. After drying herself, she carried the wall-mirror into the living room, propped it up on the table, and began turning herself into Eva Vollmar. Dabbing away with the make-up brush, she told herself that anticipating a turn of
