soon confirmed by touch. He worked himself into a corner, where he hoped he could not be seen by someone looking in. Once the hatches were down he would climb back on top of the cases to lessen the risk of being crushed.
How long, he wondered, would the voyage take? He should have asked Rainis.
An hour or so later the hatches were fastened, and the darkness became complete. Even an overcast, blacked-out Berlin had offered more in the way of visibility.
Another anxious hour followed, before the sudden rumbling of the ship's engines had him almost trembling with relief. A few more minutes and they were underway. Russell felt the change as they left the docks for the river, and wondered if he would feel another as they left the river for the bay.
He was lying across two crates, eyes closed, when he became aware of a slight shift in the light. A faint square had appeared in the ceiling above him, a square that was swiftly filled by movement. Someone was descending into the hold.
Whoever it was reached the bottom and switched on a torch. Russell shielded his eyes against the blinding light.
'Sorry,' a voice said, first in Swedish and then in English. 'But safe now. You come out. I take you to captain. You understand?'
'I do,' Russell said.
'I say I find you. Stowaway, yes. Captain a good man. But I lose job if he know I help you. I am Olle,' he said, extending a hand.
The captain's English was even better. He listened to Russell's fictional account of how he had stowed aboard with a slightly amused expression, and warned him that he would be handed over to the appropriate authorities when they reached Stockholm. They would be out in the open Baltic all the next day, he added, and Russell could make himself useful by joining the standing watch. An extra set of eyes might just save them all from a Russian torpedo. 'Now you can take him for some food,' he told Olle. 'He looks like he needs it.'
The galley chef had long since gone to his bunk, but Olle found some meatballs and potatoes to warm up. They tasted better than anything Russell had eaten since the summer. Neutrality obviously had its advantages.
A deep and dreamless sleep was interrupted by the call of duty, and a short hot breakfast was followed by two long shifts scanning the cold, rolling and almost empty Baltic. The only ships he saw were far away - German destroyers most likely, heading across the freighter's stern towards the Gulf of Leningrad.
That evening he played cards with several of the crew. No one asked him any questions, and the war was only mentioned in passing. All the talk was of girlfriends and wives, food and football, the sexiest bars in Helsinki.
He thought about that the following morning, as the lights of a country at peace brightened on the Swedish shoreline. He might be safe, but his escape had cost more than he could ever repay. Hans and Margarete Otting, the two comrades in the Kaiser Bar - they would be in concentration camps by now, if they hadn't already been executed. Strohm might have evaded the Gestapo swoops in Berlin, but Russell doubted whether Ernst or Andreas would long survive the unravelling of the network in Stettin.
He had left the war behind, but those who had helped him, and those whom he loved, were all still trapped in its writhing coils.
The British came on New Year's Eve, and Frau Eva Vollmar spent three hours in the shelter with her neighbours. The block warden ticked off her name on his list, but said nothing of his visit to her apartment.
The first morning of 1942 was cold but sunny, and Effi decided she had to get out. The walk to Humboldthain Park took about half an hour, and she sat on a bench watching the birds, wishing she had brought them some breadcrumbs. Another huge flak tower was under construction on the northern edge of the park, the air full of the sounds of hammering, but even that failed to dampen her spirits.
She wasn't sure what had brought on her optimistic mood - perhaps there were only a certain number of days which the heart could spend immured in fear and loss. That and the fact that two other truths had become evident since her trip to the theatrical suppliers. For one thing, she was unlikely to starve in the near future; there were still items of food that one could buy without ration tickets, which she could add to her dwindling supplies. The second realisation - that women over forty were essentially invisible - was depressing in itself, but highly fortuitous in her current circumstances. The chances of anyone recognising her were slim.
Making herself up for years on end was a daunting prospect, but far from impossible. And things were bound to change. Once the hue and cry had died down - perhaps in a couple of months - she would find a way of contacting Zarah, who would gladly hand over every ration ticket in her possession, and help in any other way that was humanly possible. If that seemed too dangerous, she might come up with some variation on Ali Blumenthal's bombed-out office ploy to find herself a new identity, and the ration entitlement that went with it.
Sitting there on the park bench, watching the sun rise into the Berlin sky, she could imagine the producer's introduction to the script. A woman on the run. Alone and frightened and far from home. But determined to see her lover again, and resourceful enough to survive against all the odds.
It was a difficult part to play, and she meant to play it well.
