He had just killed a man in cold blood, and the most that he felt was a lack of surprise. It had been coming for years, he thought. Even the identity of the victim seemed part of the some strange logic — not a Nazi, but a high-ranking member of the NKVD, a guardian of the Revolution that had once so inspired him, that had changed his life, found him the mother of his son, brought him to Germany.
Shchepkin would understand the warped inevitability of it all, he thought. But no one else.
There was no use trying to explain this to Effi — she just didn’t think that way. He would tell her he had killed Nemedin in self-defence. That if he hadn’t, Nemedin would have killed him, and Shchepkin, and most likely Shchepkin’s wife and daughter. And sooner rather than later.
A simpler story, and also true.
But there’d been so many other moments of choice. He found himself remembering his and Effi’s day-trip to the Harz Mountains six summers earlier. That was when they’d decided that some sort of resistance to the Nazis was the least they could live with. Had they made the right decision? Would the world really have been that different if they’d put their consciences in hibernation for a few years? People now dead — like the Ottings in Stettin — might still be alive. He and Effi, he and Paul, would not have spent more than three years apart. He would never have met Nemedin, or stood above his corpse in the snow.
But good things had also flowed from that decision. If his own contribution had often felt marginal, he had no doubt that Effi had saved lives.
And Rosa, he thought. A random consequence of the path they had chosen, yet with more power to change their own lives than any twist of political fate. A fresh infusion of innocence to replenish their rapidly diminishing supply. And he missed the girl, much more than he’d expected he would.
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Effi asked him, as they set out the following morning.
He had told her everything the night before, and she’d been less shocked, at least on the surface, than he’d expected. But he was still afraid of catching a new look in her eyes, one that said she saw him differently, that she was disappointed in him. ‘I’m fine,’ he told her.
She gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, but didn’t pursue the matter. She was sure there were things she should say, but hadn’t yet worked out what they were. Their business that morning seemed safer ground. ‘What if Otto 1 — whatever his real name is — tells us to get lost, and goes straight to Fehse? Won’t that bring the wrath of Dallin down on our heads?’
‘It might, but what choice have we got? We’ll just have to convince him that we’re not after him. That talking is his best option.’
‘Okay.’
They waited an age for a bus, and had to stand throughout the journey. Yesterday’s snow was already melting, pools of water forming round the dust-choked drains on the Ku’damm. The only sign of life at the Honey Trap was the usual crowd of boys scouring the ground for cigarette stubs.
Alighting at the Memorial Church, they walked up past the ruined zoo, skirted the western end of the park, and crossed canal and river. It was only a few minutes past nine when they reached Solinger Strasse, and climbed the stairs to Otto 1’s flat.
Their first two knocks met with no response, the third with an angry shout, the fourth with sounds of movement. ‘Who is it?’ the familiar voice shouted, whereupon Russell held a finger to his lips. When a second enquiry went unanswered, the door began to open, and Russell gave it a helping shove, throwing the opener backwards.
‘We need to talk to you,’ Russell said mildly, as Otto got angrily to his feet. Effi closed the door.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ Otto told them without much conviction.
‘We’re sorry to bust in on you like this,’ Russell continued, ‘but, like I said, we just need a short conversation.’
‘I’ve got nothing to talk to you about.’
‘Oh, but you have. We know that Otto Pappenheim is not your real name.’
‘Of course it is.’
‘And we know you’re not Jewish.’
‘Of course I am.’
Russell sighed. ‘Look, we don’t care what identity you use. If you like the name Otto Pappenheim, fine. We’re not planning to tell anyone who you really are, but we do need to know what happened to the real Otto, the one whose papers you ended up with.’
‘Why should I tell you anything?’
‘Human decency ring a bell? A girl who wants to know what happened to her father?’
The man just shook his head.
‘How about your own skin?’ He took out the photograph which included the fake Otto, and held it up for inspection. ‘If we show this round the Jewish DP camps someone will pick you out from somewhere, and you’ll be finished. So why not just tell us what we want to know, and we’ll just go away and leave you in peace.’
The man gave him a calculating look. ‘How do I know you’ll do that?’
Russell shook his head. ‘You don’t, but I will. Assuming you’re not Josef Mengele.’
‘Who’s he? I was just a guard.’
‘Ah, that’s a start. Where?’
‘At Grosse Hamburger Strasse. Just a guard,’ he repeated. ‘I was moved there from Moabit — I didn’t have any choice in the matter.’
‘Just obeying orders.’
‘Exactly. And all these people nowadays who say we should have refused — I’d like to see what they would have done.’
‘I know what you mean. So where did you get Otto Pappenheim’s papers from?’
The man hesitated, then seemed to realise he’d gone too far to stop. ‘He was just another Jew. The Greifers brought him in after one of them recognised him.’
‘And then what?’
‘The usual. They knew he had a wife and daughter, and they wanted him to give them up. They beat him for days but he wouldn’t say a word. Not a single word. Some of them were like that. Not many, but some.’
‘What happened to him?’ Effi asked, speaking for the first time.
‘He killed himself. Managed to cut his own throat somehow — they found him one morning in a pool of blood. No one could work out how he’d done it.’
‘And how did you get his papers?’
‘When the Russians got to the Oder everyone knew it was over, and we — all of us who worked there — we went through the papers of those who had died and picked a set with the right sort of age and physical details.’ He saw the look on Russell’s face. ‘You said you would leave me in peace.’
‘So I did. Where were they buried — the ones who died?’
‘The first few were buried in a corner of the Prenzlauer Cemetery, but people objected, so they had to be dug up and burnt. After that they were all burnt.’ He wrinkled his nose as if remembering the smell.
Russell gave Effi a questioning look, which she returned with a shake of her head. ‘Then we’ll be on our way. I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but at least we don’t have to meet again.’
They made their way back down the stairs, and walked to the bottom of Solinger Strasse. ‘I shouldn’t be happy,’ Effi said slowly, breaking the silence. ‘Not after what we’ve just heard. But I can’t help it. I feel like… like I can stop holding my breath. Does that make me a terrible person?’
‘Of course not. And Rosa will be proud of her father, when she finds out who he was. And if he knew about it, he’d be glad that his daughter found you.’
‘Found us.’
‘Yes.’
After skirting the park and walking down past the empty cages, they stopped off at the Zoo Station buffet. As Russell queued for their drinks he decided to honour his word, and not turn the fake Otto in. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt almost grateful to the man, for preserving the real Otto’s memory, for giving Effi the certainty she craved.
Fehse though was another matter, and hearing the story of the real Otto’s death had helped Russell make up
