The warden stopped at the first floor landing, shone his torch on Russell, and realized he'd made a mistake. 'What the hell,' he said. 'You take the east side. Knock on every door. If there's anyone in here, get them out.'
Russell did as he was told. Or almost. He thought he heard noise behind a couple of doors, but didn't knock again when no one answered. The one family that did respond to his knock filed obediently down the stairs and out into the street, the adults arguing with each other, the children giggling nervously.
The ambulances were loaded and ready to go, but Russell decided he had seen enough. Effi's flat was only a ten minute walk away, hidden away in a backstreet, and as far as he could tell, the organizers of this particular exercise were going for large squares and maximum publicity. He chatted to a few evacuated residents outside the KaDeWe until the all-clear sounded, then headed up Tauenzien-Strasse to the Kaiser Memorial Church. As he crossed the eastern end of the Ku'damm he stopped in the centre and stared up the long, arrow-straight avenue. A car was moving away in the distance; barely visible in the dim blue lights, it soon became one with the shadows.
No ARP wardens came knocking at Effi's door, but the Luftwaffe's continuing antics made for a restless night. He was probably imagining it, but many of his fellow-Berliners looked distinctly bleary-eyed as they waited at tram stops on their journey to work. Not everyone had been inconvenienced, of course - Hitler had been enjoying
Tristan and Isolde
at far-off Bayreuth while the capital rehearsed. And Soviet Ambassador Astakhov, as Russell learned from Jack Slaney, had been wined and dined by Ribbentrop's East European chief, Julius Schnurre, until the early hours.
'Where?' Russell asked.
'Ewest's.'
'They must mean business then,' Russell said dryly. The restaurant on Be-hren-Strasse was one of Berlin's finest.
'You can bet that street didn't get bombed,' Slaney said in a similar tone.
'Anyone know what was discussed?'
Slaney shook his head. 'The trade guy Barbarin was there too, so maybe just that. They all seemed really chummy though, according to one of the waiters.'
'Another straw in the wind,' Russell murmured.
'Or on the camel's back,' Slaney suggested.
Russell headed back to Neuenburger Strasse to write up his ARP exercise article. The smooth modern typewriter he'd inherited from Tyler McKinley was at Effi's place, but he still preferred the brutal mechanics of his old one. Another consequence of living in Nazi Germany - you only felt you were getting somewhere if physical violence was involved.
The ARP exercise had spared Neuenburger Strasse, much to the dismay of both Beiersdorfer and Frau Heidegger. The former was only now removing the black-out sheets from the communal hallway, and both were eager to hear Russell's account of his attachment to one of the mobile units. Frau Heidegger seemed horrified by what she heard, and was only slightly mollified by Beiersdorfer's assurance that London, not Berlin, would be on the receiving end of such bombing raids.
Russell left them to their optimism, and went up to his rooms. He took almost three hours over the article - it was his first major piece for the
Tribune
and he wanted it to be good. After lunching at the bar under the Hallesches Tor Station he drove back into the old city and sent the story off.
Next stop was the Alex. The duty officer in Room 512 searched through a pile of refused Protectorate visa applications for Russell's, and deduced from its non-appearance that the refusal had not yet been put to paper. When Russell suggested that his application might have been accepted, the man opened a drawer to demonstrate its emptiness, only to find a single waiting permit. He examined it for several seconds, and finally passed it over.
Russell drove back across the river to the American Express office on Charlotten-Strasse. A couple of months earlier a German friend had told him that first class travellers - like army officers and government officials - were allowed to sleep through the border checks, provided they handed their documents over to the carriage attendant with a decent tip. And after his traumas at the same border in March that seemed like a really good deal, especially if the
Tribune
was paying.
As it happened, the American Express office could sell him a first class ticket and book him into a hotel, but the sleeper reservation required a trip to Anhalter Station.
By the time he got back to the Adlon bar it was gone five. Noticing Dick Normanton hard at work at a corner table, Russell bought him a whiskey. 'Anything I should know?' he asked, placing the glass down on the polished wooden surface.
'Thanks,' Normanton said wryly, and took a sip. 'Just between us,' he said. 'I don't want my fellow Brits to get wind of this.'
'My lips are sealed.'
'Have you heard of Ernest Tennant?'
'English businessman. Friend of Ribbentrop's, impossible as that seems.'
Normanton smirked. 'Not so much these days. Tennant's just been visiting Ribbentrop's castle...'
'The one he stole by putting the owner in Dachau?'
'Do you want to hear this story or not?'
Russell raised his palms in surrender.
'They arrived in Berlin together this afternoon - Ribbentrop had his two private coaches attached to the express from Munich. Tennant came straight here, and I had a chat with him in his hotel room.'
'You know him?'
'My owner does, and Tennant told him he was seeing Ribbentrop. Reading between the lines, I'd say he was hoping to emerge as a peacemaker, but ready to put some distance between himself and the Nazis if Ribbentrop refused to play ball. Which of course he did. Told Tennant that Hitler was the greatest human being since Mohammed, and then started back-tracking when he realized the implication - that the Fuhrer was less important than a mere Arab.'
'The usual nonsense.'
'Exactly. The important part came later. On the train here Tennant got talking to Walther Hewel - know who he is?'
'Hitler's liaison with Ribbentrop, or is it the other way round?'
'Both, I suppose. Anyway, his take on the current situation - and we assume Adolf's - is that Chamberlain and Co. rushed into guaranteeing Poland without really thinking it through, and that they're now desperately looking for a face-saving way out. The Germans think that Hudson's Howler was just the first of many trial balloons, that when push comes to shove the British will provide themselves with some sort of excuse not to fight.'
'Which is bad news.'
'For everybody. The Poles because they'll get squashed, the Germans and the British because they'll find themselves at war with each other without really wanting to.'
'Happy days.'
'Thanks for the drink.'
Russell played poker with several American colleagues that evening, and gave Jack Slaney a lift home in the small hours. They stopped at the all night kiosk in Alexanderplatz for sobering coffees and early editions of the morning papers. 'What did I tell you?' Slaney asked after a few moments with the
Beobachter
. He folded the paper in half and pushed it under Russell's nose, and jabbed a finger at the editorial. Danzig, it seemed, was no longer enough. Real peace, the editor announced, would require a Polish willingness to discuss self-determination in the Corridor, in the lost provinces, in Upper Silesia. Would require Poland to lie on its back and wave its arms and legs in the air.
'They think they're pushing at an open door,' Slaney said.
'Yes,' Russell agreed, thinking about his talk earlier with Dick Normanton. 'Question is, will it slam shut behind them?'
'You Brits will fight, but your government sure as hell doesn't want to. They should be trying to scare the Germans, not reassure them. And if Ribbentrop's wining and dining Astakhov then they should be taking Stalin out for a meal.'
'He'd probably eat them.'
Slaney laughed, and the two of them sat there drinking their coffee, staring out across the dimly-lit square.
The following morning, soon after eleven, Russell arrived for his appointment at the Soviet Embassy. The thin-lipped Sasha answered the door, and the usual receptionist ignored him while Gorodnikov was appraised of his presence. Up in the office overlooking the boulevard he found the attache fanning himself with a sheaf of papers.
'It's like summer in Batum,' Gorodnikov said. 'Have you ever been in Ba-tum?'
Russell had not.
'It is like this. All summer. You English call it sticky, I believe.'
'We do. So have you heard from Moscow?'
'Yes, of course,' the Russian said, sounding offended at the mere question.
'So what do they want me to tell the Germans?'
'You are to say that we accept offer, that we agree to pay you good money for any information concerning German plans that involve the Soviet Union - military, economic, anything. You must say that we are most interested in German intentions towards us, that we worry about attack.'
'All right. And your side of the bargain?'
'Yes, yes. They will give you what you ask for.' Gorodnikov was shuffling through his fan for the right piece of paper. 'Someone likes you in Moscow, yes?'
'That's good to know.'
'Maybe. Maybe not. Depends who it is.'
'True.'
'Ah, here it is,' he said, extracting one sheet and putting the others down. 'Moscow agrees to help you escape from Germany. You and your lady friend. But only in real emergency. You understand? Not for holiday in the sun.'
'I understand.' And Russell did - the Soviets would get him and Effi out of Germany, but only once he'd proved his worth, and only if the Nazi authorities were actually snapping at their heels. The Soviets had nothing to gain by helping them out any sooner.
He asked for the contact number.
'We shall get to that. First, a small job you must do for us.'
Russell's heart sank a little deeper. 'What sort of small job?'
'You will go to Stettin, and see a woman there. Let me explain.' Gorodnikov leant forward, elbows on the desk and fingers interlocked. The Soviets, he told Russell, had had an agent in the Stettin docks, a man named Bern-hard Neumaier. The Gestapo had arrested him on the previous Saturday, and he had died under interrogation in Sachsenhausen on Wednesday. A couple of weeks before his arrest Neumaier had told the regular courier that his girlfriend was pregnant. He had asked the Party to look after her if anything happened to him. Her name was Erna Kliemann.
'Does she know he's dead?' Russell asked.
'We do not know.'
'Does the Gestapo know about her?'
'Our best information is that Neumaier gives nobody up. A brave man, if that is true.'
Russell hoped it was. If it wasn't, and her name had slipped out under tor-ture, then the Gestapo would be waiting for someone to turn up. 'Why not send the regular courier?' he asked.
'If Neumaier tells the Gestapo anything, then this man is compromised. And he knows many names.'
Perfect, Russell thought. He tried another tack. 'Why risk anyone?'
'The woman needs to know that Neumaier is dead. If she go to authorities with questions - bad for her and bad for us. We not know what Neumaier tells her - maybe nothing, maybe everything. If she says nothing, then good for her and good for us. And we want to give her help.' He passed an unsealed envelope across the desk; it was stuffed with twenty-Reichsmark notes. 'We look after our people,' Gorodnikov said defiantly, as if daring Russell to deny it.
The money would help, Russell agreed. 'Why not send it?' he suggested innocently.
'Not possible to send money without explain,' Gorodnikov told him. 'She must learn how much Neumaier care for her.'
Of course, Russell thought. The money would only keep her quiet if she knew where it came from.
'And too urgent for post,' Gorodnikov added pointedly.
'When do you expect me to go?' Russell wanted to know.
'Today.'
'Oh no...'
'It will only take few hours. Two hours there, two hours back - you dine in Berlin.'
'I...'
'You want way out of Germany for you and your girlfriend. This is what Moscow expect in return.'
Russell considered. It could be a lot worse, he thought. There was nothing illegal about carrying an envelope full of cash, and if there was any sign of a watch on the woman's home he could just walk away. And the reward had to be worth it. 'All right,' he said, pocketing the envelope. 'What's her address?'
Gorodnikov had already written it out. 'You must remember and destroy before you arrive in Stettin,' he advised.
'I will. Now what about that contact number?'
Gorodnikov printed out a telephone number and passed it across. 'You ask for Martin.'
Russell looked at the number, and recognized it. It was the photographic studio in Neukolln which he often used. Miroslav Zembski, the man who owned and ran it, had to be Martin. Russell had known Zembski was a communist before the Nazi takeover, but had assumed that the fat Silesian's willingness to fake him a passport earlier that year had simply been for old times' sake. Now he knew otherwise - Zembski was still on the active list. Another double life. Another reason for hope. 'I have some information for you,' he told Gorodnikov. 'A KPD cell, here in Berlin. It has had no contact with the leadership for four years, and...'
'This is a matter for the KPD.'
'One of the women has become the lover of a high-ranking SS officer. She says she has access to information that will be very useful to you.'
'Ah. This woman's name?'
'Sarah Grostein.'
'A Jew?'
'Her husband Richard was a Jew. And a prominent member of the KPD.'
Gorodnikov wrote the name down. 'I look into.' He looked up. 'If Moscow says yes, they will expect you to be woman's contact.'
'I'd rather you contacted her directly.'
'You know her. And the SD not object to you coming here. They tell you to come here!'
It made sense. 'We'll see,' he said weakly.
Sasha was summoned to show him out. As he walked down the marble stairs Russell remembered Sarah Grostein's comment about life and death decisions. Had he just taken several more?