might be English, but his mother, stepfather, stepsisters, friends – his life – were German.
And this was where his generation of German boys had ended up.
She felt like weeping, but that was nothing new.
At least she and Rosa were on a train, with a chance of reaching Berlin before the Russians. And after almost twenty-four hours in Furstenwalde that was something to be thankful for.
After around an hour the train jerked back into motion, and was soon moving at a surprisingly respectable speed. This remained so until they reached Kopenick, where it slowed to a crawl before eventually stopping completely. There was a fine view of the sunset through the window, but no explanation given for the delay. By the time they got going again darkness had fallen, and the refugees were spared an early sighting of their capital in ruins.
It could hardly have made them more anxious. There was near-silence among the refugees as the train rattled in towards Silesian Station, even the children hushed by their parents' obvious concern. There was no rush for the doors when the train came to a halt, which suited Effi very well. She knew where the NSV desk was, and hoped to be first in the queue. In the event, she settled for fourth, and while those in first place began filling in forms, she took a look around the familiar concourse. Before the war, this was where their old enemy Drehsen had met his victims, and she had dangled herself in front of him as a means of discovering where he had taken the others. It seemed a long time ago. She remembered sitting in the car with Russell on Dragoner Strasse, eager to confront the bastard in his lair. He had made her wait, and she had admitted that patience was not one of her virtues. Well, that had at least changed. If the Nazis had taught her anything, it was patience.
They had reached second place in the queue when all the lights went out. There were gasps and shrieks from the waiting refugees, which a subsequent announcement through the loudspeakers only partly allayed. When the sirens began, somewhat belatedly, to wail out their warning, several people burst into hysterical laughter.
Red Cross workers bearing flashlights soon brought some order to the proceedings, leading everyone down to the shelter under the station. The lighting was dim, the smell dreadful, but the ceiling seemed, to Ef- fi's practised eye, reassuringly substantial. She and Rosa laid claim to an empty corner and watched their fellow refugees get used to city life. One family had lost a suitcase, and the father was soon telling anyone who'd listen that they'd been right about Berliners – they really were all thieves.
Yes, and all East Prussians have the brains of sheep, Effi thought to herself. It had been a long day.
The settling-in process was just about complete when the all-clear sounded, and this time the queue was almost halfway across the concourse by the time they reached it. A helpful Red Cross worker pointed them in the direction of a canteen, and while they were eating their bowls of dubious stew a couple of well-mannered Hitlerjugend came over to ask if they needed help.
Effi seized the opportunity. 'My handbag's been stolen,' she said, clearly close to tears. 'I don't care about the handbag, but my papers were in it.'
'Don't worry,' the elder of the two youths told her, placing a tentative hand on her shoulder. 'You just need to report the loss. Once you've finished your dinner I can show you where.'
He was as good as his word, escorting them both to the relevant station office. A form was provided, which Effi filled out and signed with her new name – Dagmar Fahrian. The official presented her with a carbon copy, which he said she would need for obtaining replacements. The people at the NSV desk would explain it all.
But not today. The sirens began wailing again, and everyone hurried back underground. By the time the all- clear sounded two hours later, the NSV desk had closed and all public transport had ceased for the night. There was nothing for it but to sleep in the shelter.
Russell reckoned it was around ten in the morning when they next came for him, a surprisingly civilised hour by NKVD standards. And their route to the interrogation room seemed more direct, which also might bode well.
He reminded himself that hope was dangerous.
This time there were two of them, Colonel Ramanichev in his usual place, another uniformed officer sitting slightly to one side. He was probably in his early forties, stockier than his companion, with swept-back black hair, sallow skin and a Stalin moustache. He looked Georgian or Armenian, and was wearing a variant of the NKVD uniform which Russell didn't recognise.
Russell sat down. There was a bad smell in the room, and he had no difficulty in identifying the source. It was himself.
Ramanichev, who had obviously noticed it too, got up to open a window. As he sat back down a distant peal of laughter was audible. The world was still out there.
'Has the war ended yet?' Russell asked pleasantly.
Ramanichev gave him a look. 'No,' he said after a moment, 'it has not.'
'Pity.'
Ramanichev glanced briefly at his fellow-officer, as if seeking permission to proceed. 'When I questioned you three days ago,' he began, 'you stated with absolute certainty that the American Army had abandoned its plans to advance on Berlin.'
'Correct,' Russell agreed, with a lot more confidence than he felt. What had bloody Eisenhower done now?
'The American 9th Army reached the Elbe River the day before yesterday, and yesterday they crossed it. At Schonebeck, near Magdeburg. You know where that is?'
'Of course.'
'They are only a hundred kilometres from Berlin.'
'Are they still advancing?'
'No,' Ramanichev conceded reluctantly, 'not as yet.'
Russell shrugged. 'You know how it works. Front-line generals like to put pressure on their bosses. Whoever's in charge of the 9th Army – his orders were probably to stop at the river, but he'll have found some good reason to send a few men across, and if there's any resistance they'll have to be reinforced. If there isn't, he'll have shown the top brass that the road to Berlin is open. He'll want to push on, but they won't let him.'
'Why not?'
'Because that's what was decided. Those airborne divisions you claimed were making preparations – are they still?'
'That is unclear.'
'So they're not. I'm telling you the truth. Eisenhower is going to let the Red Army take Berlin. And the casualties that go with it. '
'You'd stake your life on that.'
'I think I probably have.'
Ramanichev smiled his agreement. 'My colleague has some questions for you.'
'What do you know about the German programme to create an atomic explosive?' the other man asked without preamble. He had a slightly rasping voice, and several gold teeth which glinted when he opened his mouth.
The sudden change of subject caught Russell out. 'Only that it didn't amount to much,' he said without thinking. 'Nothing' would have been a much better answer.
'Explain,' the man said peremptorily.
'I have no inside knowledge of the subject…'
'That is hard to believe. This must be a matter of great importance to American intelligence.'
Russell sighed. 'As I've told the comrade here, I no longer have any connection to American intelligence. As a journalist, I did hear certain stories.'
'Such as?'
Russel paused, wondering what to say. He had tried to keep abreast of atomic developments over the last few years – had even tried to understand the scientific and engineering problems involved – but there seemed no point in admitting as much in a Lyubyanka interrogation room. 'I know one of the journalists who covered the Strasbourg story last December,' he said. 'When the French stumbled across that laboratory. He wasn't given any access to the scientific details, but it was no secret that the American scientists who went over the place were all profoundly relieved. Whatever it was they found, it convinced them that the Germans were a million miles away
