seemed to be fifteen or sixteen, and Paul doubted whether their life expectancy warranted shaving kits. Scanning the smoke-blackened child faces lining the road he felt a further lurch towards total despair. Some seemed utterly blank, others close to feral. Some were on the verge of tears, and probably had been for weeks. Understandable reactions, each and every one.
The good news, from Paul's point of view, was that the Hitlerjugend 's suicidal devotion to the Fuhrer had earned them transport – their unit, unlike others, had been allotted trucks and fuel enough to reach Erkner. He climbed aboard his vehicle with relief, and tried not to notice the age of the other passengers. Get to Erkner, he told himself, and a chance would occur to seek out his old battalion, most of whose members still considered personal survival a more than worthwhile goal.
The lorry moved off, and he closed his eyes for some much-needed sleep.
'I'm Werner Redlich,' a small voice interrupted him. 'I heard you tell the MP you're a gunner.'
'Yes,' Paul said without opening his eyes.
'I wanted to be a gunner,' the boy persisted.
Paul looked at him. He had noticed him at the crossroads – a sad and far too thoughtful face for one so young. Like most of the others, he was wearing a brown shirt, short trousers and an oversize helmet. 'How old are you?' he asked.
'Fifteen,' Werner replied, as if were the most natural age for a soldier to be. 'Nearly fifteen,' he corrected himself. 'Are your family in Berlin?'
'No,' Paul said, shutting his eyes again, 'they're all dead. And I need some sleep.'
'Okay,' Werner said. 'We can talk later.'
Paul smiled to himself, something he hadn't done for a while. He spent the next couple of hours drifting in and out of sleep, the lorry jerking him half-awake each time it accelerated away from road blockages caused by refugees, retreating soldiers or the earlier depredations of the Red Air Force. When he fully came to, the back of the lorry was empty, and Werner was offering him a can of food and a mug of coffee. 'Where are we?' he asked, looking out over Werner's head. 'And where is everyone?'
'Stretching their legs. We're in Herzfelde.'
The sky above the houses was purest blue, and the war seemed, at that instant, a long way away. He levered the tin open, and began spooning its contents into his mouth. 'Why have we stopped here?' he asked between mouthfuls.
Werner was looking down the road. 'We're wanted,' he told Paul.
'Who by?'
'SS.'
'Then we'd better go.' Paul took one last mouthful of soup, and lowered himself down to the road. Fifty metres away, the unit was coalescing around a couple of black uniforms. A Fuhrer Order, he guessed, as they walked forward to join the throng.
He was right. The SS Sturmbannfuhrer leaning on the windshield of his APC had paper in hand, and after gesturing successfully for everyone's attention, began reading the latest bulletin: 'Hold on another twenty-four hours, and the great change in the war will come! Reinforcements are rolling forward. Wonder weapons are coming. Guns and tanks are being unloaded in their thousands.'
Paul looked around, expecting at least the odd smirk, but every young face seemed enraptured. They wanted so hard to believe.
'The guns are silent on the West Front,' the Sturmbannfuhrer continued. 'The Western Army is marching to the support of you brave East Front warriors. Thousands of British and Americans are volunteering to join our ranks to drive out the Bolsheviks. Hold on another twenty-four hours, comrades. Churchill,' the Sturmbannfuhrer concluded with the air of a magician saving his biggest rabbit for last, 'is in Berlin negotiating with me.'
Now there were smiles on the young faces. They were going to win after all.
Paul reminded himself that it wasn't so long since he had taken official pronouncements seriously. Even now, a small part of his brain was wondering whether the British leader might really be in Berlin.
'Do you believe it?' Werner asked quietly, as they walked back towards their vehicle.
'Of course,' Paul said in a tone that implied the opposite.
'Neither do I,' the boy said, removing his helmet to run a finger along a still-healing gash in his forehead.
'Where are your family?' Paul asked him.
'In Berlin. In Schoneberg. My father was killed in Italy, but my mother and sister are still there. At least I think they are. I've heard nothing since we were sent to the front.' He raised his eyes to meet Paul's. 'I promised my father I'd look after them.'
'Sometimes there's no choice and you have to break a promise. Your father would understand that.'
'I know,' Werner said, sounding more like fifty than fifteen. 'But…' He let the word hang in the air.
'We're loading up,' Paul told him.
Ten minutes later they were on their way, heading off the main road, driving south-west towards Erkner, which until recently had still been functioning as a terminus for Berlin's suburban trains. There were lots of refugees on the road, many with possessions piled in pushcarts or prams, some with a dog strutting happily alongside, or a cat curled up among salvaged bedding. Did these people imagine safety ahead, or were they simply putting as much distance as they could between themselves and the guns? Paul hoped they were planning to bypass the German capital, because heading into Berlin would, as the English saying had it, exchange the fire for the frying pan. Over the next couple of weeks, with the Nazis desperate and the Soviets hungry for revenge, his hometown seemed like a place to avoid.
They were only about fifteen kilometres from the outskirts now, rolling down the sort of road – sun-dappled forests on one side, gently rippling lakes on the other – that had featured on pre-war Reichsbahn posters. 'No longer a road leading home,' he murmured to himself.
Half an hour later they drove into Erkner, eventually stopping in a still-busy street close to the town centre. People emerged from houses and shops to stare at this children's army, anxiety warring with disapproval in many of the faces. Some ducked back in, only to return with food and cigarettes for the soldiers. One woman in her forties, catching Paul's eye, and presumably noticing his less than pristine condition, asked him and Werner if they would like a wash.
They were only too pleased – it was a while since either had seen soap of any description, and even the wartime variety, which tended to remove skin along with the dirt, seemed like a rare luxury. Werner was not yet shaving, but Paul took the opportunity to remove four days' worth of stubble. Some of the wildness in his face came away with the razor, but there was no disguising the sunken cheeks, the dark semi-circles under the eyes, the loss staring back at him. He turned hurriedly away, and went back out to find Werner eating cake in the kitchen.
The woman silently ushered Paul into the front room, and shut the door behind them. 'He's only fourteen,' she said, as if Paul himself might not have noticed. 'I can hide him here. Burn the uniform and say he's my nephew. No one will be able to disprove it, and it will all be over soon.'
Paul looked at the woman. Presumably she realised that her suggestion, if reported, would result in her being shot. He wondered where she and all those like her had been for the last twelve years. 'You can ask him,' he said.
Back in the kitchen, Werner listened to the woman's offer, and politely rejected it. 'I must get back to Berlin,' he told her. 'My family are relying on me.'
'Time to get up,' Kazankin announced, pulling back the branches that covered them. The sky was still clear, the light fading fast.
Despite being bone tired, Russell had managed only three or four hours of sleep. He had spent most of the day lying on his back, examining the blue sky through the lattice of vegetation which Kazankin and Gusakovsky had created, listening to Varennikov's snoring and the war's relentless soundtrack. Hardly ten minutes had passed without a bomb exploding, a flak gun booming or a plane droning overhead. How had Berliners managed to sleep during the last two years?
He struggled out of the dug-out, and reluctantly opened the can of cold mystery rations that Kazankin handed him. He wasn't hungry, but forced himself to eat whatever it was, envying his companions' apparent
