David Downing - Lehrter Station

Effi had just joined him when the windows of their carriage exploded inwards, the sound of falling glass chiming through the boom of the offending gun.

Russell dropped to the platform, pulling Effi down after him. ‘Flat as you can,’ he urged her, remembering the sergeant who’d given him the exact same advice twenty-seven years earlier, in a patch of no man’s land a few miles from Ypres.

Raising his eyes, he saw that others had done the same. Most, however, were hopelessly milling.

Another burst of machine gun fire produced screams of pain or alarm.

Who was firing? And at whom?

Feet were pounding towards them, and he did his best to shelter Effi’s body with his own. The owners of the feet ran past, and squinting upwards Russell recognised one of the men from their carriage. The boy was there too, mouth pursed with effort as he hauled the heavy sack along the uneven platform.

There were shouts and whistles, and a last burst of gunfire from those in flight. Russell turned to see the old man from the opposite seat crumple silently to the ground. His wife sank down beside him, and a keening cry seemed to slip from her throat. She raised her head on its long pale neck, and the thought crossed Russell’s mind that swans always mated for life.

‘It was probably the Lehrter Station Gang,’ the American major told them. Once it was safe to do so, they had sought and found his office in what remained of the old ticket hall. As they waited for transport Russell had asked him about the battle on the platform.

‘The what?’ Russell asked. The ‘Lehrter Station Gang’ sounded like something out of a Hollywood Western.

‘They’re mostly Russians,’ the major explained, ‘prisoners who don’t want to go home. They’ve realised that crime pays much better here than real work does back in Russia. Particularly when the chance of getting caught is close to zero. Unlike the police, they’re armed.’

‘Why Lehrter Station?’

‘It’s where the biggest gang is based. Most of the refugees from the east arrive there, and the whole area’s just one big camp. Ideal for hiding out.’

‘Did they get away with anything?’ Russell asked. He hadn’t seen anyone carrying booty.

‘A few thousand cigarettes.’

‘And they kill men for that?’ Effi said disbelievingly. She still felt shocked by what she had witnessed. She had seen death in many forms during the war years, from bodies mangled beyond recognition to bodies lacking only that unmissable spark of life, but she had never seen a man killed, or a woman widowed, at such close quarters.

The major smiled. ‘You must have just got off the boat. Cigarettes are money here. Better than money.’

‘We know,’ Russell said. It was why they were carrying a dozen cartons in their suitcases. But an economy that used cigarettes for currency still took getting used to.

The door opened to admit a US Army corporal, a lanky young man of around twenty with a ready smile and hopeful eyes.

‘Here’s your ride,’ the major said.

On the walk to the jeep the corporal told them that his name was Leacock, that his hometown was Cincinnati, Ohio, and that he’d been in Berlin since July. Despite the late hour and the freezing temperature, he seemed more than happy in his work. After ushering Russell and Effi into the back and piling their suitcases next to his own seat, he turned and asked if they’d like to ‘see some of the sights.’

‘Like what?’ Russell asked.

‘The Ku’damm’s still busy at this time of night. Worth a look, and it’ll only add a few minutes to the ride. And you’d be doing me a favour. I need to pick something up there.’

‘No, I…’ Russell began, but Effi intervened. ‘I’d like to see it,’ she said in German.

‘Have you been here before?’ Leacock asked.

‘Once or twice,’ Russell said drily. He had to admit, he was curious himself. ‘Okay, let’s go via the Ku’damm.’

Leacock needed no second bidding, and soon they were circling the vast, rubble-ringed Potsdamer Platz and heading up a wide avenue of perforated buildings towards the southern perimeter of the Tiergarten. ‘We’re in the British zone now,’ Leacock shouted over his shoulder.

‘Are there no checkpoints between the zones?’ Russell asked him, leaning forward.

‘None. Not even with the Russians. There are patrols, and you need to stop when they tell you to, but that’s it. You can go where you like until someone tells otherwise.’

The Tiergarten was shrouded in darkness, but the damage to Lutzowplatz was all too visible — one of Berlin’s loveliest squares, it had been virtually demolished. Tauentzienstrasse had fared slightly better, but here too the familiar landmarks were outnumbered by those that were missing. Beyond the sundered remains of the Memorial Church Russell glimpsed a pile of rubble where the Eden Hotel had stood.

The Ku’damm had been hard-hit too, but life had clearly returned to those buildings still standing. There were lights here, and more traffic, both human and motor. Russell had just registered the survival of the Hotel am Zoo when Leacock swung the jeep across the wide avenue and brought it to a halt outside a nightclub. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ he said, taking the key and vaulting out onto the pavement.

He had only gone a few steps when second thoughts turned him round. ‘You don’t have anything you want trading?’ he asked Russell. ‘Cigarettes, maybe? I’ll get you a good deal.’

Russell shook his head, vaguely amused.

There were three British soldiers smoking by the entrance, and five German women apparently awaiting their attention. A jazz band was playing inside; the music swelling as Leacock opened the door, subsiding as it shut behind him. Russell noticed one of the women slip her hand inside a soldier’s pockets for a casual fondle. The soldier gave her a quick grin, and said something to one of his friends.

The corporal returned, looking less than happy. ‘Goddamn limeys,’ he muttered under his breath as he let in the clutch and almost jumped the jeep back into motion.

They drove past several more flourishing establishments before turning south through Schmargendorf and on into Dahlem, eventually pulling up in a sea of other jeeps beside a large building on Kronprinzenallee. They were, Russell realised, only a ten-minute walk from Thomas’s old home on Vogelsangstrasse.

Leacock led them inside, carrying Effi’s suitcase. ‘Anything you need, come to me,’ he told them en route to the duty office. ‘Any of the drivers will know how to reach me.’

The duty officer checked through his list, and eventually found their names. A bed was waiting two buildings down, in Room 7. They walked the required hundred metres, found their allotted room, and collapsed onto the double bed that virtually filled it. The last thing Russell remembered was wondering whether or not to take off his shoes.

Given all they had heard about the difficulties the Americans were having in supplying their Berlin garrison, breakfast came as a very pleasant surprise. Bacon, eggs, pancakes and drinkable coffee, all in quantities which the average Londoner could only dream about. The staff, they noticed, were mostly German, and almost pitiably eager to please. There was no mistaking who had won the war.

Back at the duty office, another baby-faced lieutenant searched his records for some sign of their military relevance. When Russell explained that he was a journalist, the man suggested that a visit to the Press Camp on nearby Argentinischeallee was in order. ‘They’ll have your ration cards and press credentials there.’

‘What about my wife?’ Russell asked, rather savouring the phrase.

‘What? Ah…’ He examined the document he had just discovered. ‘There’s no mention of a wife here. But a Colonel Dallin wants to see you. Do you know what that’s about?’