glass, until the Tiergarten had trees? Her train of thought was interrupted by a cruising jeep full of Red Army soldiers, all of whom seemed to be staring at her. She probably looked too old for sober predators, but she aged her walk just in case.
The jeep sped away.
Until the Russians had gone, she added to her list. But how long would all that take? The war had been over for six months, and Berlin was still in pieces. How many years would it be before a normal life was possible?
It was all so uncertain. She’d always thought of Thomas as a rock, but even he seemed unsure what to do. The way he’d been talking the other night she half-expected him to announce his retirement, and retreat to his in- laws’ country farm. But could he afford it? If his money was all tied up in the works, then the Soviets held the whip hand.
She was reminded of her own flat, and decided to see if it was still there. A crowded Stadtbahn train carried her from Alexanderplatz to Zoo, and the old familiar walk brought her to Carmerstrasse as the last light faded in the western sky. The building was still standing, and lights were burning in the first floor flat that her parents had bought her all those years ago. As she stood and watched, the silhouette of a woman cradling a baby appeared on the thin curtains, and Effi thought she heard an infant crying.
Should she walk right in and assert her ownership? No, or at least not now. There were already too many things to do and worry about — for a fleeting moment she felt more overwhelmed than she ever had in the war. Survival had been such a simple ambition.
Russell spent the early afternoon visiting two more DP camps. Both were in the American zone — one in Neukolln, the other on the edge of Tempelhof aerodrome — but neither had any record of the two they were seeking. At the second camp one of the American administrators told him that all the Jewish inmates had recently been moved to their own exclusive camp in Bavaria. Berlin’s other Jewish DPs would probably go the same way, the man thought, and Russell could see why they’d want to. But he couldn’t help wishing that they’d put off moving until he found Otto and Miriam.
Realising he wasn’t that far from the Redlich address, he decided to get it over with.
Paul had run into fourteen year-old Werner Redlich and his Hitlerjugend unit during the final days of the war. Having already lost his father in the North African campaign, the boy fretted about his mother and sister back in Berlin. When a decent Wehrmacht officer discovered how young he was, and suggested that he return home, Werner had offered only token resistance. And then the boy had walked into an SS patrol, which promptly hanged him as a deserter.
Paul had written it all down. He had thought of saying that Werner had died in battle, thereby saving mother and daughter anguish, but if by some chance the body had been returned to them, then the rope burn on the throat would have undermined everything else he said. And he wanted them to know how brave their son and brother had been, and how much the boy had cared for them.
But as Russell now discovered, it was all beside the point. The address was no longer there.
He found a neighbour who had known the family. According to her, Frau Redlich and her daughter had been buried in their basement when a bomb collapsed their building. The son, she added, had not come home.
‘He was killed,’ Russell told her.
‘Maybe a blessing,’ the woman murmured.
No, Russell thought as he walked away. A family wiped out could never be that.
Back at the house on Vogelsangstrasse, he found the kitchen occupied by the Fermaiers and Niebels. The old couple were busy preparing a meagre-looking dinner, and Frau Fermaier gave Russell what felt like a warning look, as if she feared his asking to share. Frau Niebel and her daughter were sitting at the table, their rations neatly piled in front of them, waiting their turn at the stove. The mother wished Russell a curt good evening before turning her face away, and the daughter gave him a blank look, as if she’d never seen him before.
The rest of the house seemed empty. He took up residence in Thomas’s study, and thought about a stroll to the Press Club for beer and conversation. He was writing a note to leave behind when Thomas came in through the door with — miracle of miracles — three bottles of beer in his briefcase.
‘A gift from a Russian major,’ his friend announced proudly. He opened two of the bottles with his Swiss Army knife.
‘A successful day then,’ Russell suggested.
‘You could say that. The Soviets have given me a huge job, printing the new schoolbooks for Berlin’s lucky children. According to my major the German comrades in Moscow have been hammering out the texts since Stalingrad, and the approved versions have finally arrived.’
Russell was interested. ‘What are they like?’
‘Oh, what you’d expect. The world through Stalin’s eyes. I haven’t had time to look them over properly, but the history books are a hoot. Guess how they deal with the Nazi-Soviet Pact?’
‘A regrettable necessity?’
‘You’re joking.’
‘You’re right — I wasn’t thinking. They don’t do regrets, do they?’
‘They don’t. And the Pact, it turns out, was a figment of our imagination. It’s not even mentioned. The Germans didn’t attack the Soviets in 1939 because the Soviets — all thanks to Comrade Stalin — were much too strong.’
‘And 1941?’
‘Hitler was desperate, Stalin was ready, but the Generals let him down.’
‘Amazing.’
‘And deeply depressing. The Nazis feed our children with one set of lies for twelve years, and now the Soviets come along with another set.’
‘Wait for the American text books.’
‘Oh, don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’ Effi said, coming in through the door. She gave them both a kiss and sat down. She looked tired out, Russell thought, but her eyes lit up when Thomas offered her a bottle of beer.
Russell explained about the text books.
‘Don’t talk to me about Americans,’ she said. She reached in her bag for the sheaf of papers. ‘This is what they’re calling a Fragebogen. And I have to fill the whole thing in before they’ll even consider letting me work.’ She passed it across to Russell, who slowly thumbed through the pages. ‘“Question 21”,’ he read out loud. ‘“Have you ever severed your connection with any church, officially or unofficially? 22: if so, give particulars and reasons.”’ He looked up. ‘Why on earth would they need to know that?’ He read on. ‘There’s a long list of organisations here, everything from the Nazi Party to the German Red Cross. The Teacher’s League, the Nurses’ League, all the arts bodies. The America Institute! There are almost sixty organisations here — there can’t be many Germans who didn’t belong to at least one of them. Ah, and that’s not all. “Question 101: Have you any relatives who have held office, rank or post of authority in any of the organisations listed?” That should cover just about everybody.’
‘If it does, it’ll take them years,’ Thomas suggested gloomily. ‘But maybe we shouldn’t complain. We do want them to weed out the real Nazis.’
‘But this won’t do that,’ Russell protested. ‘This will just tar every German with the Nazi brush.’
‘Okay, they’ve gone overboard, and they’ll probably realise as much in a few months. It’ll make them more unpopular than the Russians, and they won’t like that.’
‘I don’t have a few months,’ Effi said.
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry…’
There was a knock on the door.
‘Yes?’ Thomas answered.
It was Esther Rosenfeld, whom Russell hadn’t seen since the summer of 1939. She had aged a lot, which was hardly surprising, but the smile when she saw him seemed full of genuine warmth. Leon was no better, she said, but no worse either. She wondered if Russell and Effi would like to see him one evening.
‘Tomorrow?’ Russell asked, looking to Effi for confirmation.
‘I’d love to,’ she agreed. ‘I left a lot of messages this afternoon,’ she added. ‘And several Jewish friends have promised to spread the word.’
‘I can’t thank you enough,’ Esther said. ‘All of you. And Leon thanks you too. He will tell you himself
