shelter of a large oak, they stopped to look back. The second Panther was also burning, the T-34s roaming this way and that like cowboys rounding up cattle in an American Western. As they watched, one erupted in flames – at least one panzerfaust had found its mark. But the Hitlerjugend had vanished from sight, swallowed by darkness and battle.
They moved on into the trees, keeping the road some fifty metres to their right and moving as fast as the darkness would allow. Behind them, the 'Christmas trees' were increasing in frequency, like a firework display reaching for its climax.
They had gone about half a kilometre when three Soviet tanks rumbled past on the road – they would, Paul guessed, soon be sitting astride the autobahn intersection. He led Werner towards the south-west, intent on crossing the autobahn further down, and after jogging on for another half an hour they finally came to the lip of a cutting. But there was no autobahn below, only twin railway tracks. As they reached the bottom of the bank they heard something approaching. A train, Paul supposed, but it didn't sound like one.
Werner started forward, but Paul pulled him into the shadows. A tank loomed out of the gloom, half on and half off the tracks. Someone was standing up in the hatch, and several other human shapes were draped across the hull, but it was several seconds before Paul could be sure they were Germans.
He thought about trying to attract their attention, but only for a moment. They probably wouldn't see him, and if they did the chances were good that they'd open fire.
Following them, though, seemed a good idea – if there were any Russians on the line to Erkner, the tank would find them first. He and Werner started walking down the tracks, the sound of the tank fading before them.
After around an hour Paul realised they were coming into Erkner. A few seconds later the tank loomed out of the darkness, still straddling the rails. His first thought was that it had run out of fuel, but it hadn't been abandoned – a man was still standing up in the turret, smoking a cigarette. Paul risked a shout of ' kamerad '. The man quickly doused his cigarette, but invited them forward when Paul supplied the names of their units.
The tank had fuel enough, but the commander, fearing that the Russians were already in Erkner, had sent his grenadiers ahead on reconnaissance. If they came back with a good report, then he'd drive straight through the town. If Ivan was already ensconced, then he'd find another way round. In either case, they were a panzergrenadier short, and Paul was welcome to the vacancy. The boy could come along for the ride.
The grenadiers came back a few minutes later – Erkner was still in German hands. Everyone climbed wearily aboard, and the tank moved off, swapping rails for road. They rumbled down the sleeping streets, talked their way through the MP checkpoint on the canal bridge, and headed out onto the Berlin road. Reaching the city's outer defence line near Friedrichshagen, they discovered that their regiment was ordered to Kopenick, five kilometres further on. They arrived in the hour before dawn to find their supposed assembly area – the western end of the Lange Bridge across the Dahme – occupied by a company of Volkssturm. With no other tanks in sight, and confident that the Russians were at least a day behind them, the case for sleep seemed overwhelming.
Werner, however, was hard to turn off. He had been quiet throughout the journey, and now Paul discovered why. The boy couldn't shake the feeling that he'd let his comrades down.
Paul understood why Werner felt that way – only a week ago he had felt the same himself. But not any longer. Maybe it was only him, but over that week the rules had seemed to change. 'They chose their fate,' he told Werner, hoping the boy wouldn't notice all the questions he seemed to be begging. 'Look, there are only a few days left. There's nothing you and I can do anymore that will help win the war, nothing we can do to prevent it from ending in defeat. Nothing at all. All we can do is to try and survive it. And I want to survive,' he said, surprising himself with the vehemence of the thought. Had losing Gerhard and Neumaier made him more determined to live?
'So do I,' Werner admitted, as if it were a guilty secret.
'Good,' Paul told him. 'So can we get some rest?'
'Okay.'
Paul closed his eyes and let the sound of the river lull him to sleep.
Russell woke to darkness, and it was several seconds before he remembered where he was. On the other side of the basement Varennikov was gently snoring, and somewhere in the outside world bombs were falling to earth with a series of distant thuds. 'Welcome to Berlin,' he murmured to himself.
Waking briefly in the middle of the night, he had found the young scientist reading the papers by torchlight, and was somewhat surprised not to find him still at it. He had let Varennikov sleep until five in the afternoon on the previous day, mostly because he couldn't decide what their next step should be. When the Russian had finally woken up, he had assumed that they would wait there for the Red Army – 'we stay, yes? – but Russell was not so sure. And while Varennikov had spent his evening engrossed in the papers, Russell had spent his sifting through options. Without reaching a decision.
Things seemed no clearer this morning. It might make sense to wait for the Soviets – they should be here in four or five days, a week at the outside. And if he handed Varennikov and the papers over in one piece, then Nikoladze might help him find Effi and Paul. But it didn't seem likely. Even more to the point, he wanted to find Effi before a drunken gang of Russian soldiers did, not several days later.
And if they let the Russian tide wash over them in Dahlem, those areas of central Berlin still in Nazi hands would be forever out of reacx. Effi might be hiding in the outlying suburbs, but he doubted it. That wasn't the city she knew, and she had always liked being at the centre of things.
So should he leave Varennikov behind? The Russian would probably be okay, provided he kept to the basement and remembered to eat. But Russell was loath to do so: Nikoladze might well decide he'd abandoned his charge – he was, after all, under orders to seek out a second atomic research laboratory and deliver his charges to the railwaymen comrades. The other laboratory could safely be forgotten – without their NKVD enforcers, and with valuable papers already secured, the risks were not worth taking. And he could always stand up the German comrades at the rail yards, given a good enough reason. But the one thing Nikoladze would expect to find, when he eventually set foot in Berlin, was someone protecting his precious scientist with a new mother's fervour. 'I left him in a basement on the other side of town' would not go down too well.
It had to be the Potsdam goods yard – Varennikov could hardly object if Russell insisted on following their original orders. But not until tomorrow. Today he would go to Zarah's house in Schmargendorf. If Effi had told anyone that she was still in Berlin, it would be her sister, and during the day Zarah's husband Jens would be at work, always assuming that there was anything left for Nazi bureaucrats to do. He could also visit Paul's house in Grunewald, which was only a short distance farther away. It didn't seem likely that Matthias and Ilse were still in Berlin, but it was possible, and they would have some idea where Paul was. In fact, he would go there first.
He went up to the kitchen, poured two cupfuls of water into the kettle, and lit the gas. The flames seemed even smaller than before, but he was in no hurry. Bombs were still falling in the far distance – on the government district, most likely. He wondered whether Hitler was still in residence, and decided he probably was – if the Fuhrer ever let go of his reins, it was hard to imagine any of the disciples having the gumption to pick them up. And someone was keeping the whole futile endeavour going.
Upstairs, he went through Thomas's clothes – the two of them were much the same size – and picked out the oldest suit he could find. In the bathroom he found a strip of bandaging, in Thomas's study a bottle of red ink. The latter looked the wrong colour for blood, but it would have to do. A stick and a limp would complete the illusion of someone unfit for battle.
Or at least it might. Russell had the feeling that death was the only excuse the Gestapo would find acceptable, and only then if you had papers to prove it.
He had no papers of any kind, but without Varennikov in tow he could probably talk himself through a random check. If all else failed he still had Gusakovsky's gun.
It was time to get moving. Back down in the basement he shook Varennikov awake, and told him he was going out for a few hours. He expected dissent, but the Russian just grunted and went back to sleep.
Closing the front door quietly behind him, he walked down the overgrown path to the arched gateway and took a peek at the outside world. There were other people about, but none looking or moving in his direction. He slipped out into the street, and walked slowly north towards the main road. Halfway up, an old man leaning on a gate wished him a cheery good morning, and predicted a nice day. The Allied bombers still dotting the sky were clearly not a factor worth mentioning.
