As Russell limped north, cutting through suburban back streets and avoiding the main thoroughfares, the bombing damage seemed ever more serious – Schmargendorf had fared much worse than Dahlem. Houses were missing from every row, streets and gardens cratered. At least half of the trees were burnt or broken, and those that weren't had been pollarded for fuel. Green shoots were now rising from the stumps – Eliot had been right about April being the cruellest month.
An all-clear sounded in the distance, but crowds no longer rushed from the shelters as they had in the early years. The visible population seemed almost exclusively female, and there was little in the way of purposeful activity. Women of all ages stood outside their doors and gates, alone or in groups, smoking or chatting or both. Their lives were in limbo, he realised. They were waiting for the war to end, waiting for news of a husband or son, waiting to discover what would be left for rebuilding their streets and their lives.
He crossing the wide and mostly empty Hohenzollerndamm. There was a tram further up the street, but it showed no signs of being in service. So far, he had seen a couple of official-looking cars and several bicycles, but no trace of public transport. No electricity, no petrol. The city, it seemed, had ground to a virtual halt.
He walked on into Grunewald, and finally reached the peaceful suburban avenue where Paul had lived with his mother, stepfather and stepsisters. A few trees had been cut down, but only one dwelling, several hundred metres from Matthias Gehrts' large detached house, had been completely destroyed by a bomb.
Working on the thesis that boldness was best – skulking seemed much more likely to get him reported – he limped straight up the driveway and reached for the iron knocker. He already feared that the house was empty – it had that indefinable air about it – and the lack of response confirmed as much.
He considered peering through the windows, but decided that would look overly suspicious. He walked back to the gate, played out a pantomime of noting something down, and limped off down the road. As he neared the next corner, he noticed that Paul's old school was standing empty, chains tied across its rusting gates.
A quarter-hour later he reached the road where Effi's sister lived. Skulking was his only option here, because Jens might answer a knock on the door. They had never liked each other, and it seemed safe to assume that he and Effi becoming fugitives had only made matters worse. For all Russell knew, Jens had been expelled from the Party for having traitorous relatives.
He had bought a Volkischer Beobachter from a still-functioning kiosk on Hubertusbader Strasse – the Nazi paper had shrunk, he gleefully noted, to a single large sheet – and duly positioned himself behind it some fifty metres from the relevant door. It was, he knew, a less than convincing stratagem, but he couldn't think of a better one. He was, in any case, probably wasting his time. Zarah was probably in the country with Lothar, and he had no intention of approaching Jens.
According to the paper, there was heavy fighting in the vicinity of Muncheberg. Which, in Goebbels-speak, meant that the town had already fallen. The Red Army was almost at Berlin's door.
An extra issue of rations was announced, supposedly in honour of the Fuhrer's birthday. And rations for the next two weeks could be collected in advance – someone at least in the Nazi hierarchy seemed reasonably aware of how much time remained.
No one had emerged from the house, which was disappointing but hardly surprising – it would have been something of a coincidence if anyone had appeared during these particular ten minutes. But he could hardly stand there for hours. The temptation simply to walk up and knock grew stronger, and after completing his perusal of Goebbels' latest bleatings he felt on the verge of succumbing. If Jens answered the door he'd just have to play it by ear.
He was saved by an old man in a milkman's uniform, who beat him to it, climbing the steps and hammering on the front door with all the insistence of someone intent on settling a long outstanding bill.
There was no answer. The milkman placed a piece of paper against t he door, licked his pencil, and scribbled what looked like a furious message.
Russell started back towards Dahlem. There were more people on the streets now, and most seemed to be smiling. He assumed the extra rations were responsible, but soon learned otherwise. A bald old man with a Hindenburg moustache – he had more hair under his nose than Russell had seen on many heads – insisted on shaking his hand. 'We made it through,' he said exultantly.
'Through what?' Russell asked.
'You haven't heard? That was the last air raid this morning. It was on the radio.'
The BBC, Russell assumed. 'That is wonderful,' he agreed, and allowed his hand to be shaken again. Walking on, he could think of only one reason why the Allies would stop their bombing – the Soviets was poised to enter the city.
As if in response to that thought, a rippling wave of explosions erupted away to the east.
There were no planes in the smoke-smeared sky. It could only be Soviet artillery. They were close enough to bombard the city centre.
Things would get worse, he realised. The gaps between air raids allowed time to shop, to collect water, to enjoy a few precious hours of natural light. But the Soviet guns would keep pumping shells around the clock. There would be no respite, no time of safety on the surface. From this point on the residents of Hitler's rapidly shrinking realm would be spending all their time underground.
There were no shells landing in Dahlem – yet. Reaching Thomas's gate, he checked the street was empty before hurrying down the path. If anyone was watching from a window, he could only hope that any sense of social responsibility had worn thin. If seeing their city go up in flames didn't stop people reporting their neighbours, then what would?
Varennikov was awake, standing in the kitchen scratching his bare chest and staring hopelessly at the kettle. There wasn't enough gas to warm a flea.
'Someone knocked on the door,' he told Russell.
'When?'
'Oh, fifteen minutes ago.'
'Where were you?'
'Here.'
'You didn't see who it was?'
'No. I was afraid they might see me if I moved the curtain.'
'You were right. Did they only knock once?'
'No twice. After a half-minute they knocked again.'
'They?'
Varennikov shrugged. 'I don't know. I didn't see.'
It might be nothing, Russell thought. But what innocent reason could anyone have for knocking on Thomas's door? An old friend looking them up? Perhaps. It would be a coincidence, someone appearing so soon after their own arrival. A neighbour would be more likely, and a neighbour would know there was no one supposed to be here. Unless, of course, their arrival – or his own exit that morning – had been noticed.
If a neighbour had seen them, he or she might have come over to check them out, might now be phoning the police to report the presence of burglars. Would the police care? Surely they were too busy saving their own skins to worry about crime?
He walked out into the hall and tried the telephone. It was still working.
If a policeman turned up he supposed he could shoot him. And he supposed that he would, if that seemed the only way to save himself and Varennikov. But he would much rather not, particularly if the policeman was some poor old sod from the Orpo.
It was time to move on, he decided. If they could find sanctuary with the comrades in the Potsdam goods yard, then Nikoladze would be happy, and he would be within walking distance of the bolthole Effi had bought in Wedding almost four years ago. They had stayed there for a week while arranging their escape from Berlin, and she might, conceivably, still be living there. He had nowhere else to look. 'We have to leave,' he told Varennikov.
'Why?' the Russian asked, alarm in his eyes.
'I think we may have been seen…'
'You shouldn't have gone out.'
'Maybe, but I did. And if I was seen then someone may report it. The plan was to hide out in the railway yards – remember?'
