'I can't see what I'm doing,' Effi said, putting the half-sewn dress to one side. Outside the light was fading, and there'd been no electricity since that morning's bombing.
'Have my seat,' Ali suggested. 'The light's better.'
'No, it's all right. It's not as if there's any hurry. I don't think the Skoumal sisters will be going out gallivanting any time soon.' When Effi and Ali had set up the business in late 1942, Frau Skoumal had been one of their first clients, and fashioning dresses for her and her daughters had yielded them a steady supply of food and ration stamps. They had lived above the shop in Halensee in those days, because residents of commercial premises were not obliged to register with the local authorities.
Effi stood up and stretched her arms above her head. 'I can't believe how…'
She was interrupted by an urgent series of knocks on their front door. The two women looked at each other, and saw their fears mirrored.
'Did you hear a car?' Effi whispered, as she headed for the door.
'No, but…'
There were more knocks.
'Who is it?' Effi asked, remembering to put a few years on her voice.
'It's Erik,' a voice almost hissed.
She let him in, wondering what new disaster had occurred. It was only the second time he had been to the apartment, and he looked shabbier than usual – his coat was missing a button, his trousers badly frayed at the ankles. He was also unshaven, she realised – the first time she had seen him so.
'I'm sorry for coming here,' he said at once, 'but there was no time to contact you in the usual way.'
'Were those men caught?' Effi asked.
'No. At least, not as far as I know. We still haven't heard from Lubeck, and no news is usually good news. But that's not why I'm here.'
'One of them knew me,' Effi told him. 'And he stayed here.'
Aslund looked mortified. 'Oh, that's bad. I'm sorry. It's just.. there's no excuse, but the arrangements… there was no time. I am sorry,' he repeated.
'Have a seat,' Effi offered. Her anger was already turning to guilt. Aslund had saved so many innocent lives.
'No, I can't stay. The reason I came – I have someone in need of a refuge.'
'Of course,' Effi said instinctively, and tried to ignore the sense of resentment that suddenly welled up inside her. They had not had a 'guest' for several months, and she had grown accustomed to living without that particular hostage to Gestapo fortune.
'I know,' Aslund said, as if he could feel her reluctance. 'But…'
'For how long?' Effi asked.
'Until it's over,' the Swede admitted. 'This one's different,' he continued, seeing the look on Effi's face. 'She's only eight years old. Her mother was killed by a bomb about a month ago, and the woman who's looking after her – who sheltered them both for more than two years – she's seriously ill. She can't look after the girl anymore.'
'She's Jewish?' Ali asked.
'Yes. The name on her new papers is Rosa. Rosa Borinski. She's a lovely little girl.'
Effi hesitated. She wanted to say no, but she didn't know why. One risk too many, perhaps.
'There's no one else,' Aslund said softly.
'Of course we'll take her,' Effi said, looking at Ali. How could they refuse?
Ali looked concerned. 'There's something I've been meaning to tell you,' she said. 'I told Fritz that I'd move in with him until it's all over. There'll be more room, but I won't be around much to help.'
'That's all right,' Effi told her. She felt upset that Ali was going, but hardly surprised. 'I can manage the girl on my own,' she told Aslund.
'That's wonderful,' Aslund said, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. 'Someone will bring her here tomorrow. After the day raid, if there is one.'
'They haven't missed a day for weeks.'
'True. But it can't last much longer. Once the Russians are in the city, the Western allies will have to stop their bombing.'
'And how long before the Russians are here?' Effi asked him.
Aslund shrugged. 'A few weeks. No more than that. And maybe less.'
Russell was woken by the early morning sunlight, and found it impossible to go back to sleep. With two hours to wait until the restaurant opened, he enjoyed a long soak in the oversize bath and then sat by the window with his Russian dictionary, checking through words he might need to use. When the Cyrillic letters began to blur he put the book down, and stared out at the square. A group of four women cleaners were gathered beside the statue of Marx, leaning on their brooms like a coven of witches. Marx hadn't noticed them, of course – he was staring straight ahead, absorbed in saving humanity.
He ate breakfast alone surrounded by yawning waiters, and then went for a walk, cutting round the back of the Lenin Museum and into Red Square. On the far side, a couple of people were crossing in front of St Basil's, but otherwise the vast expanse was free of movement. There were no guards outside Lenin's tomb, a sure sign that the mummified corpse had not yet returned from its wartime vacation in distant Kuybyshev.
Russell ambled across the cobbles, wondering what to do. Would the Soviets actually communicate a refusal, or just leave him dangling for days? Probably the latter, he thought. He needed to push for an answer – it wouldn't hurt and it might even help. The Soviet Union was one of those strange places – like Oxford or the Church – where money didn't talk very loudly, and where making yourself heard called for a certain directness. Like shouting, or banging one's fist on a table.
If the British introduced a National Health Service he could almost guarantee that those who shouted loudest would get the best treatment. Which would still be better than rationing according to income.
His mind was rambling. What if the shouting failed to shift them? What should he do then – travel back to the West? Once the Red Army took Berlin, the Americans, British and French would insist on their own people going in to administer the agreed zones, and he, as a Western journalist, should have no trouble going with them. But who knew how long it would be before the Red Army declared the city safe, and allowed their Allies in? Weeks probably, maybe even months.
Was there nothing more he could offer the Soviets? He couldn't think of anything. He needed a friend, a sponsor.
Shchepkin, he thought, without much hope. But there was no one else.
Yevgeny Shchepkin was the closest thing he had to a friend in Moscow. When Russell had refused the Russians' invitation to the Soviet Union at the end of 1941, he had gained the impression that Shchepkin had actually been pleased, as if he knew that his bosses meant Russell no good, and was pleased that their plans had come to nought. That might have been wishful thinking – it was hard to know. When they had first met in 1924, both had been enthusiastic communists. At their meetings in 1939, Shchepkin had still seemed committed, but on a much more pragmatic level, and by 1941 Russell had gained the distinct impression that his old comrade was just going through the motions.
Shchepkin might speak in his favour, he thought. Always assuming he could – the average life expectancy of Stalin's international reps had taken something of a dip in recent years.
But how could he find him? There were no private numbers in the Moscow telephone directory.
He could just go straight to the NKVD. Put them at their ease by sticking his head between their jaws. Say Shchepkin was an old friend whom he wanted to look up while he was in Moscow. Witter on about internationalism and other mad ideas from Lenin's day. What did he have to lose? They could only say no.
The young woman who brought the child seemed cold and brusque to Effi, as if she was passing on a parcel rather than another living soul. 'This is Rosa,' was all she said, handing over the false papers and a small and very battered suitcase. She was clearly disinclined to linger, and Effi did nothing to detain her. The child could answer any questions about herself.
