Outside the light was fading, and Russell felt disinclined to wander the streets after dark. He needed somewhere to stay, and hadn’t yet seen a surviving hotel. The main station was probably his best bet — there had been enough Russians in evidence to inhibit the Poles, or so he hoped.
Walking south he felt strangely buoyed by what he had heard — strangely because Miriam was actually dead. Perhaps he had always known that, but he had never imagined that she would find happiness. Once the bad news had been taken for granted, the good news came into its own.
He wondered if Miriam’s parents would feel that way. Would grandchildren named in their honour prove some consolation for the loss of their only child? They probably would. But first they had to survive the journey, and then they had to be found.
It took him twenty minutes to reach the station, which was much more crowded than it had been that morning. The reason for this soon became clear — trains were arriving but not departing, and the roofless concourse was packed with Poles newly arrived from the east, and uncertain where to go. Russell spent half an hour queuing for information, only to be told that none was available. The man behind the window would certainly sell him a ticket, but couldn’t guarantee a journey. The next train west for ordinary mortals might run that evening, might run next week, and only the Russians could tell him which. If of course they knew.
At least there was food to be had. He bought himself some bread and sausage, and took it upstairs onto one of the platforms, which offered the same view of the stars, without the congestion. The appearance of a Berlin train would be tempting, but he knew that he couldn’t leave Breslau without checking Freiburg Station. In the event, the only train rumbling in the right direction was made up of empty wagons, probably intent on collecting whatever was left of German industry.
It felt a lot longer than twelve hours since he’d said goodbye to Albert. He laid himself out on a platform bench with a sweater for a pillow, and finally found a use for the tie he’d been carrying, threading it through the suitcase handle and looping it around his wrist.
The night passed slowly by. There was no sign of the Polish militia, and hardly any traffic on the road outside, but distant cries and gunfire jerked him awake on several occasions. As soon as it began to grow light, he made his way back to the concourse and, picking his way through the sleeping bodies, found someone selling tea. Equally welcome, and much more surprising, the left luggage office was open for business. After dividing his last few packs of cigarettes between suitcase and coat, he deposited the former and started out for Freiburg Station.
The city was still waking up, and all he encountered on the half-hour walk were two mangy dogs and a swarm of bloated flies. Freiburg Station was a field of rubble, but a train was being loaded in the sidings beyond. A locomotive was backing onto the long line of cattle cars, leaking steam from every orifice and joint.
Russell held back for a moment, surveying the scene. There were several hundred people around the train. Most were German, but he could see small groups of Polish militia. The former were trying to get themselves and their meagre possessions aboard, the latter doing their best to separate the two, and the consequent struggles had already left several bodies on the asphalt. Some Red Army men were standing near the head of the train, apparently oblivious to the robberies going on all around them, but their mere presence probably explained the lack of gunfire or obvious bloodshed. They certainly made Russell feel safer.
He walked down the train, looking for Torsten. He felt sure he would know him, even without a lost arm to assist recognition, and young men in any case seemed thin on the ground. After drawing a blank, he sought out the dispatch office, where a couple of elderly Poles — old railwaymen, by the look of them — explained the situation. As none of the Germans were expected back, no records were being kept of their departures. And since the destinations were rarely known in advance, no records were kept of those either. The wretched Germans were leaving Poland, and where they ended up was of no interest to the Poles.
He walked back to the main line station, where more bad news was waiting. According to a friendly official, in two days time the Russians were planning on closing the Oder-Neisse border to all traffic but their own. When Russell asked how he might avoid permanent incarceration in the new Poland, no answer was forthcoming. Travel on scheduled trains to the border was restricted to those in possession of Soviet passes, and these, the official added with almost indecent relish, were never dished out to ordinary foreigners, only to fraternal Party officials or bosom friends of Uncle Joe.
Russell considered it unlikely that Stalin had bosom friends, but the rules seemed straightforward enough. So all that remained was to bend them. He walked through the pedestrian tunnel to the southern side of the station, and across to the old Reichsbahn building, which the two officers in the Ring had told him housed the Soviet HQ. The huge structure had taken several obvious hits — the six statues above the colonnaded entrance were down to three and a bit — but still seemed in working order. Inside the service was what he’d come to expect from the Soviets — slow verging on comatose.
Asking to see someone from the NKVD provoked the usual look — was the foreigner out of his mind? — but a representative was duly summoned from the lair upstairs. He was young, fair-haired and looked suitably paranoid. Russell led him gently away from the desk, offered up his American passport, and quietly revealed that they were working for the same organisation. Comrade Nemedin in Berlin could vouch for him. Or even Comrade Shchepkin.
The young man examined the passport again. What did Russell actually want?
‘A rail pass. I have to be in Berlin by tomorrow morning. If you contact Comrade Nemedin he will confirm the importance of my work there.’
His companion visibly relaxed — distributing passes was obviously part of his remit. ‘Wait here,’ he said, ‘I will talk to Berlin.’
Russell found himself a seat and prepared for a long wait, but only minutes had passed when the officer reappeared, clattering back down the staircase. He handed Russell his passport, open at the newly-stamped page. Phoning Berlin had obviously seemed too much of a chore.
He still needed a train, and one finally arrived at six in the evening. It was part-passenger, part-freight: three carriages half-full of Soviet soldiers, theatre directors, actors and Party apparatchiks; several boxcars full of who knew what. Russell sat with the thespians, who had plenty to drink, and were happy to share it with someone from the land of Shakespeare. They were doing King Lear in Berlin, which seemed, after several vodkas, astonishingly appropriate.
His new companions, whom he guessed had been drinking for days, passed out at regular intervals. Russell sat by the window of the barely-lit carriage, peering out at the darkened Silesian fields, wondering how many bottles he needed to drown out the taste of post-war Poland.
The Man I Shall Kill
The same young British soldier turned up at Thomas’s house on Saturday morning with another letter from London. Effi insisted on making him tea, partly out of gratitude, partly for the pleasure of a few minutes’ company. He talked about his girlfriend back in Birmingham and, rather more wistfully, about the vintage motorcycle he was restoring. Rommel, she remembered, had enjoyed the same pastime.
Once the soldier had gone she took the letter upstairs to read. There were two pages from Rosa about her schoolfriends and teacher, along with a folded drawing of a couple out walking on Parliament Hill, both wrapped up so warmly that only their eyes were visible. Somehow you could still tell that they were old.
Zarah’s letter ran to several pages. She described two films she’d seen at the nearby cinema, both starring Ingrid Bergman. The one with her idol Bing Crosby was set in a Catholic school, and sounded far too schmaltzy for Effi’s taste; the other, with Gregory Peck and dream sequences by Salvador Dali, piqued her interest. Surrealism had been frowned upon in the Third Reich, at least where the arts were concerned.
Paul was still seeing a lot of Marisa, Lothar had taken up stamp collecting, and Rosa was again doing well at school. Again? Effi wondered. Her sister had never suggested anything else. And Rosa missed her, Zarah went on, before lamenting the poor selection of vegetables at Camden market.
There was no mention of Jens until the very last paragraph, and then nothing of Zarah’s own feelings about his survival. ‘I told Lothar his father was alive,’ she wrote. ‘I wasn’t sure how he’d react, but I didn’t expect him to be so angry. He said he’d write to his father, but he hasn’t. I don’t know whether to encourage him or not. What do you think? Anyway, I expect we’ll be back in Berlin before long. I like England more than I thought I would, but it’s
