Invaliden Strasse was almost empty, and so was Luisen Strasse. A number of fires were burning in the half demolished Charite Hospital complex, and several buildings on the other side of the street were smouldering. Organ music was coming from somewhere, suitably funereal against a background crackle of flames. They passed several corpses, some apparently untouched, others charred and riven.
The carnage continued beyond Karl Strasse. A headless woman lay twisted in the street a few metres short of the S-Bahn bridge, but Effi could see no sign of the head. There was a bicycle though, which the woman must have been riding. It was a man's machine, with a crossbar which Rosa might perch on, and a frame at the back for carrying their luggage. Effi stood it up and spun the wheels. It seemed fine.
Turning in search of Rosa, she saw the girl staring down at the headless corpse, making drawing motions with her right hand. It was how she distanced herself, Effi realised. Drawing the world kept it at bay.
'Rosa,' she said, breaking the spell. 'Come here.'
The girl did as she was told, her eyes brightening at the sight of the bicycle.
'We're going to see if we can both get on this,' Effi told her. Two suitcases were impossible, so she forced as much as she could into one, and tied it shut with a rope of torn clothing. She lifted herself onto the seat, helped the girl onto the crossbar, and set the wheels rolling. The first few metres seemed a trifle perilous, but soon they were gathering speed and approaching the Marschall Bridge.
In 1941 they had all watched Udet's funeral procession from the side of this bridge, Paul angry at his father for being English, Russell angry with his son for making him give the Nazi salute. Now the bridge itself was half gone, with only one lane open and men at work below, probably wiring the rest for destruction. She expected to be stopped, but the guards on the bridge just waved them through, one throwing Rosa a kiss.
She pedalled on down towards Unter den Linden, turning right past the walled-up Adlon as a queue of men bearing laden stretchers filed in through the makeshift entrance. The Zoo Bunker flak towers loomed in the distance; the whole Tiergarten seemed, from Pariserplatz, like a military camp. She continued on down Hermann Goring Strasse, intent on following the road that formed the southern boundary of the park, and was just approaching the turning when she heard it – a whistling sound that rapidly gathered pitch and volume as it turned into a scream. A split-second later the earth in the adjacent park erupted, showering them both with fragments of soil and grass.
As Effi applied the brakes another screech ended with flames leaping out of a nearby government building. These weren't bombs, she realised. They were artillery shells. The Russians had brought their guns within range.
Another one landed in the road behind her, drawing a squeak of alarm from Rosa. Yet another exploded in the Tiergarten, spinning an already bomb-damaged tree up into the air. The shells were arriving every few seconds, and in a seemingly random pattern. They had to find shelter, and quickly.
The large bunker under Potsdam Station seemed the nearest. Effi resumed pedalling, pushing her weary legs faster and faster, weaving her way through rubble as the world exploded around her. Potsdamer Platz hardly seemed to draw any nearer, and she found herself wondering if she would even feel a blast that blew her off the bicycle. Would someone find her headless body by the side of the road?
As she reached the top of the square two shells smashed into buildings on the western side, sending out gouts of flame. A car was on fire in the middle, people screaming on the pavements away to her left, but she rode straight on, swerving between still-moving victims and heading straight for the steps that led down to the shelter. Reaching it, they both leapt off, and Effi frantically untied their suitcase. She was reluctant to leave the bicycle, but knew how crowded the shelter would be. Letting it drop, she grabbed the suitcase and hustled Rosa down the steps.
She'd been in this bunker once before, when an early air raid had caught her between trams in the square above. There had been a lot of rooms, some the size of school assembly halls, with electric lighting, pine chairs and tables, and a reasonable number of clean, working toilets. People had sat around having picnics, and made jokes about the feebleness of the British bombing.
That was then. Now furniture and lights were gone, the population had risen ten-fold, and no one was making jokes. Effi led Rosa deeper into the labyrinth, hoping for a space to sit down in. They passed a couple of blocked toilets, and several corners used for the same purpose. The smell was appalling.
All the rooms were full of people. Most were women, but there were some old men and a fair number of small children. They sat or lay in mostly silent misery, their suitcases beside them, often attached to their wrists with string.
The corridors and stairways were also heavily populated, except for those that connected the underground hospital to the outside world. These had to be kept clear for the stretcher-bearers. Two Hitlerjugend patrolled them, moving on anyone who tried to settle.
Eventually they found a place, a niche off the cleared corridor where residence was apparently permitted. The previous tenants, their nearest neighbours told them, had just been taken away. The baby had died of hunger, and the mother had tried to stab herself with a shard of broken glass. She'd been taken to the hospital.
Effi leant back against the wall, and enfolded Rosa in her arms. 'At least we're safe,' she whispered.
'I'm all right,' Rosa said, then repeated the phrase, just to be sure.
'Good,' Effi murmured, and gave the girl a squeeze. They'd be here for a while, she told herself. She wouldn't take Rosa back outside until the shelling had stopped, and why would it stop before the fighting was over? The Russians seemed unlikely to run out of ammunition, and she couldn't see the Wehrmacht pushing them back out of range.
When Paul awoke the daylight was almost gone, and a tall figure was leaning over him, gently shaking his shoulder.
'Hello, Paul,' the man said.
He recognised the voice before the face. 'Uncle Thomas!' he exclaimed, throwing off the greatcoat and scrambling to his feet. They looked at each other, burst out laughing, and embraced.
'Come, let's sit down,' Thomas said, indicating one of the cast-iron seats that lined the river promenade. 'I'm much too tired to stand up.' He took off his helmet, unbuttoned his coat, and lowered himself wearily onto the seat.
He looked a lot older than Paul remembered. They had last met three years ago, when his uncle had tried to defend his father, and he had refused to listen. How old was Thomas now – fifty, fifty-one? His hair, cut back almost to nothing, had gone completely grey, and the lines on his face had multiplied and deepened. But the deep brown eyes still harboured mischief – Uncle Thomas had always found something to laugh at, even in times like these.
'What are you doing here?' he asked Paul.
'God knows,' Paul replied. My unit was overrun on the Seelow Heights. The usual story – too little ammo and too much Ivan. I've been backpedalling ever since. Looking for my unit.'
'Still in the 20th?'
'What's left of it.'
'And who's that?' Thomas asked, twisting in his seat to look at the sleeping Werner.
'His name's Werner Redlich. I picked him up… no, he picked me up – a couple of days ago. The other boys in his unit all wanted to die for the Fuhrer, but Werner wasn't so sure.'
'How old is he?'
'Fourteen.'
'He looks younger.'
In sleep he did, Paul thought. 'What are you doing here?' he asked his uncle.
'Defending Berlin,' Thomas said wryly. 'I was called up last autumn. They spent several months training us to fight a street battle, then sent us out here to defend a river.' He shrugged. 'The earthworks are good enough, but there's nothing to put in them. No artillery, no tanks, just a bunch of old men with rifles they might have used in the First War. And a few disposable rocket launchers. It would be a farce if it wasn't a tragedy.' He smiled. 'But at least I'm getting some exercise.'
'How are the family?'
'Hanna and Lotte are with Hanna's parents in the country. They should be behind American lines by now.'
