David Downing - Lehrter Station

‘Yes, but my wife…’

‘I am in Berlin to make film,’ Effi interjected in English.

‘Ah. Well I don’t know about that. Why don’t you both have a coffee while I give someone a call, okay? The canteen’s in the basement.’

‘We were also promised permanent accommodation,’ Russell told him.

‘Okay, leave it with me.’

They did as they were told, returning twenty minutes later to find the officer looking more than a little pleased with himself. ‘You have to report to the Reichskulturkammer at 45 Schluterstrasse,’ he told Effi. ‘It’s in the British zone, off…’

‘I know where it is,’ she said. It was only a short walk from her old apartment.

‘You’ll get your ration card from them.’

‘Yes.’

‘Accommodation… I spoke to someone in Colonel Dallin’s office, and apparently they’ve got something lined up. He’s out somewhere, but they think he’ll be back soon, so if you could just hang on here…’

‘Okay,’ Russell concurred without enthusiasm.

They had been sitting there for more than an hour, reading month-old copies of Stars and Stripes, when Russell had an idea. ‘Are the telephones working — in the city I mean?’ he asked the duty officer.

‘Some are, some aren’t.’

‘Could I try a number?’

‘Sure. Be my guest.’

Russell dialled Thomas’ number, which had worked in April. It still did.

‘Dahlem 367,’ the familiar voice answered.

‘Thomas, it’s John.’

‘What? John? Where are you?’

‘Just down the road. At the American HQ on Kronprinzenallee. Effi’s here too. Are Hanna and Lotte with you?’

‘They’re still in the country. But this is wonderful. Are you coming over?’

‘Of course. I was hoping we could stay with you.’

‘Yes, yes, I’ll find some room somewhere. The Americans dumped three other families on me after requisitioning their houses, so it’s a bit… but we’ll find a way, please, come. As soon as you can.’

‘We’ll come now,’ Russell told him. It felt so good to hear Thomas’ voice.

The officer looked surprised, and Russell realised it was the first time he’d spoken German in the man’s presence. ‘We’re not going to wait any longer,’ he said in English. He reached out for one of the man’s pencils and wrote out Thomas’ number. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but if Colonel Dallin can’t wait he can reach me on this.’

‘He won’t be pleased to find you gone.’

‘Tell him how upset I was to miss him,’ Russell said, drawing a smile. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Sundays in Dahlem had never been noted for excitement, but the quiet streets offered a welcome corrective to their nightmare arrival at Anhalter Station. It should have been a cold, clear day, but the sun was muted by hanging dust, the freshness of the air compromised by faint odours of damp, decay and human remains. Russell found himself wondering how many bodies still lay unclaimed beneath the rubble.

Walking beside him, Effi noticed how little the population had changed since April. There were hardly any men on the street, and even fewer children. The only youths they had seen that morning had been begging outside the American mess hall.

Turning off Konigin-Luise-Strasse, they could see Thomas waiting by his gate. He hurried to meet them, engulfing first Effi, then Russell, in ferocious hugs. They had last been together in May, when Russell had bought their releases from the Soviet zone with the atomic documents that he and Varennikov had buried in Thomas’s garden. But Thomas had soon set off for the country home of his parents-in-law, where his wife Hanna and daughter Lotte had been living for almost eighteen months. Since that day Russell had only received one letter, confirming that all were alive and well.

The house looked much the same as in April — in sore need of attention. Thomas looked fit enough, but Russell couldn’t help noticing how much the war — and the death of an only son — had aged his friend.

‘When did you arrive?’ Thomas asked, leading them in through the front door.

‘Late last night,’ Russell said. ‘We arrived at Anhalter Station in the middle of a gun battle.’

Thomas was not surprised. ‘That’s a place to avoid after dark. The occupiers don’t have the men to police the city, and they won’t arm Germans. So…’ He shrugged and continued on into the kitchen-dining room. ‘This is the only communal room,’ he told them, pulling out chairs from under the table. ‘You’ll sleep in my bedroom,’ he added; ‘I can use the camp bed in my study.’

‘We can’t turn you out of your bed,’ Russell protested, knowing full well that his ex-brother-in-law would insist. The Americans might offer better accommodation, but Thomas’s company seemed infinitely preferable.

‘Thank you,’ Effi said.

‘You’re welcome. It’s so good to see you both. How is everyone?’

They gave him the news from London — Paul’s possible romance, Rosa’s excellent reports, Zarah’s flirtation with the man downstairs. ‘It seemed wiser to leave them there,’ Russell said, ‘at least until we knew what was happening here.’

‘That was probably the right thing to do. Hanna wants to come back, but I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I want them back, but I can’t help feeling they’re better off where they are. And I wouldn’t have any time to spend with them if they were here — if the Soviets aren’t demanding my presence, then the Americans are.’

‘Your printing works are in the Soviet zone,’ Russell guessed.

‘One street away from the boundary line,’ Thomas said bitterly.

‘Ouch.’

‘Ouch indeed.’

‘So who else is living here?’ Effi asked.

Thomas grunted and shook his head. ‘In the living room,’ he began, ticking off one finger, ‘an old couple named Fermaier. They’re decent enough, but in shock — they’ve survived and their family hasn’t. Their son was killed in the Dresden bombing, their daughter by a Russian shell in Schmargendorf. Two grandsons died in Russia. There’s only a granddaughter left, but she’s joined the communist party, and they can’t decide whether to disown her. I tried to reassure them — I told them that my sister was in the Party once — and they gave me sympathetic looks, as if I’d just admitted a family history of mental illness.

‘In Lotte’s room,’ he continued, ticking off a second finger, ‘there’s a younger couple named Schrumpf — about your age. How he survived the war is unknown — a civil servant of some sort I’d guess, and there’s that tell-tale fading of his jacket lapel where the swastika used to be. They don’t go out much, which might be because he doesn’t want anyone to recognise him. Or he just can’t bear seeing what happened to the thousand — year Reich. She wanders round in her dressing-gown at night, like someone auditioning for Hamlet’s ghost.

‘But it’s the couple in Joachim’s old room who give me the most trouble. A mother and her grown-up daughter. They’re not very nice, though perhaps they have cause. They both seem incredibly angry, and I’d guess that the daughter at least was abused by the Russians. But God knows it’s hard to feel any sympathy. They are so…’

Voices were audible in the hall.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Thomas half-whispered.

Two women came into the kitchen, one around fifty with pinched features and hair in a tight bun, the other in her twenties with blonde hair cut short and the sort of face a smile might transform.

‘Frau Niebel. Fraulein…’ Thomas said, getting to his feet. ‘How are you this morning?’

The woman sighed. ‘That woman kept us awake with her sobbing for half of the night,’ she said. ‘Again. She may be a “Victim of Fascism”’ — a heavy hint of sarcasm here — ‘but we ordinary Germans need our sleep. I’ve been to the Re-housing Office, and they have no record of her, so I assume she’s your personal guest…’