David Downing - Potsdam Station

He was tempted to go up immediately, but an explosion nearby persuaded him otherwise. The camp beds that belonged to Frau von Freiwald and her niece were still waiting for them, a fact which Russell found surprising, but which Frau Esser took obvious pride in – the idea of personal property still meant something in her shelter. He introduced himself to his new neighbours, and received fulsome expressions of sympathy for the loss of the family estates. Declining the offer of a game of skat, he lay down and closed his eyes.

When he woke a few hours later, the only people still awake were an old couple reading a book by the glow of a Hindenburg light. The outside world seemed quiet, and after testing the silence for several moments he wended his way through the gently snoring bodies to the stairs. The sky above the courtyard was a fiery red, but the absence of shellfire persisted.

There was no electricity in the apartment, but once he'd pulled up the blackout blinds there was enough fire-reflected light to see by. Nothing reminded him of Effi though, until he came upon the blouse she'd been wearing that night in the Stettin Station buffet, when she'd calmly announced that she wasn't going with him. He lay down on the bed, and succumbed to the urge to sniff the pillow. He was hoping for the familiar scent of her hair, but all he could smell was damp.

Elsewhere in the flat he found clothes belonging to a child and another, bigger woman. But there was nothing to tell him anything more – no writing, no letters, only a collection of pencil drawings. He doubted they were Effi's – he couldn't remember her ever drawing anything. The other woman's probably – they seemed too good for a child. He leafed through them – they were like a visual diary of the city's fall.

In the Potsdam Station shelter it was almost midnight, and Effi had only just finished another long stint in the hospital. Now that the fighting was only a few kilometres away the medical staff were even busier, and the proportion of wounded soldiers to civilians was growing ever-higher. The presence of so many field grey uniforms had unfortunately attracted the attention of those in black, many of whom were now patrolling the corridors in search of possible deserters.

She had sent Rosa to bed an hour ago, and was on the way to join her when a young man on a corridor trolley caught her eye. He was wearing only undershorts, and his pale legs and trunk contrasted markedly with the dark stains of dried blood that covered his arms, neck and face.

It was Paul.

His eyes were closed but he was breathing well enough. The grim expression on his face gave her pause, but only for the briefest of moments. She had known him since he was eight years old. He would never betray her.

She touched him lightly on the shoulder, and his eyes jerked open. 'Paul,' she said softly. 'Remember me? Dagmar?'

He took in the familiar face, the nurse's uniform, and realised he was smiling. 'I saw you at Furstenwalde Station,' he said.

'I saw you too. Aren't you cold? Where are your clothes?'

'A bit. My uniform's underneath the trolley. I had to take it off – it's covered in blood and brains.'

'Why, what happened to you?'

'A shell. I was on Grossbeeren Strasse. I've no idea how I got here.' He could see the expression on Werner's face. 'A friend had just been killed…' he began, but let the sentence die.

She saw the pain pass across his eyes. 'I'll get you a blanket,' she told him. 'I'll only be a moment.'

While she was gone he levered himself into a sitting position. He felt strange, but that was hardly surprising. Everything else seemed in working order. He vaguely remembered a doctor. He'd also been covered in blood.

Effi came back with a blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

'How did you end up here?' he asked her.

'A long story.'

'It must be,' he said with a wryness that reminded her of his father.

'One for later,' she warned him, as one of the doctors went past.

'You know that Dad escaped?' he whispered.

'Yes.'

'Do you know where he is now?'

'No,' Effi admitted. 'But I expect he'll arrive with the first Americans, whenever that is.'

'Why didn't you go with him?' Paul asked, without really meaning to.

It felt like the question had asked itself.

'That's another long story.'

'Okay,' he agreed. He could hardly believe she was standing there in front of him. 'I saw Uncle Thomas a few days ago,' he told her.

Her face lit up, only to darken as Paul outlined the circumstances.

'He was planning to survive,' he concluded, as if that alone might save his uncle. He suddenly realised that a young girl had joined them, the one he'd seen with Effi on the Furstenwalde platform.

'You're supposed to be asleep,' Effi scolded her, without any noticeable effect. It was hard to imagine Effi as an effective chastiser of children.

'You must be Paul,' the girl said in a very grown-up voice.

'I am. And who are you?'

'I'm Rosa at the moment. Rosa Borinski. My aunt has told me all about you. She's been taking care of me since my mother died.'

'That's right,' Effi agreed. 'Look, I'll leave you two together while I do what I can with Paul's uniform. Okay?'

'Okay,' Rosa said, looking suddenly shy.

'So what did Effi – Dagmar – tell you about me?' Paul asked her.

'Oh, that you like football. And models of ships. And that it was difficult for you having an English father.'

It had been, Paul thought. For a while it had coloured everything. And now it seemed utterly irrelevant.

'And that you lost your mother like I did.'

'It's all true,' Paul admitted. His mother's death seemed a long time ago.

A shadow loomed over them, two men in black uniforms with belts so stiff that they squeaked. Their insignia said they were Untersturmfuhrers, the SS equivalent of lieutenants.

'Name?' one of them asked. He had a thick blubbery face with the sort of pop-out eyes that gave the master race a bad name. His companion, by contrast, was a trifle on the weaselish side. Both had one hand on their holsters, as if mimicking each other.

'Gehrts, Paul.'

'Papers.'

'They're in my uniform. It's just been taken to be cleaned.'

'Are you actually injured?' the second man asked.

'I was knocked out by shell-blast. The doctor said I have mild concus-sion,' he added, suddenly remembering as much.

'Do you have a chit?'

'I don't think so,' Paul admitted.

'The doctor's been too busy,' Effi said, coming up behind the two SS.

'But I can vouch for this patient.' She handed Paul his uniform. It still wore the stains of a messy death, but at least the fragments had been brushed away.

'What is your unit?' the first man asked.

'20th Artillery Regiment, 20th Panzergrenadier Division.'

'Their command base is now in the Zoo Bunker. You will report there immediately.'

'As soon as I'm dressed, Untersturmfuhrer,' Paul agreed.

The man looked vaguely dissatisfied, but nodded his head and turned away. He and his partner walked off down the dimly lit corridor in search of other victims.

'I think I can persuade one of the doctors to write out a chit excusing you further service,' Effi told Paul. 'And then you can come back to the flat with us.'

Paul smiled and reached for his trousers. 'No, I couldn't do that.'

'Why ever not? There's no point in getting yourself killed at this stage.'

'I know. But I couldn't duck out on a lie. I owe my comrades better than that. If I decide to take my chances as a deserter I will – there's an honesty in desertion. But I won't cheat the system. Not while honest men are still dying.' He looked her straight in the eye. 'Does that sound childish to you?'

'No, just stubborn.' And she knew there'd be no budging him. There never had been once he'd decided on something. 'But if you change your mind…' She told him their address, and was about to add that his presence might offer them some protection when she realised that the opposite would probably be true. If he came between them and the Russians then the latter would probably shoot him. 'Just come when you can,' was all she said.