David Downing - Potsdam Station

There was a lot he disliked about America and its priorities. But he could imagine that country producing a Brecht, and he couldn't say the same of the Soviet Union. The dollar was indifferent – it didn't care if you lived or died, and for people with education and means, people like himself, freedom and privilege were there for the taking. The NKVD, by contrast, was caring to a fault. Whatever you did was their business, with all the constraints that that implied. Neither knowledge nor money offered much in the way of protection, and often invited the opposite.

A key turned in the door, interrupting his reverie.

It was the same lieutenant-colonel, wearing a slightly less hostile expression. 'Colonel Nikoladze should arrive here early tomorrow morning,' he told Russell. 'And I've been instructed to provide your wife with protection. If you could give me the exact address?'

Russell did so, and explained that Effi was using an alias. 'And please ask your men to tell her that I'm all right.'

The Russian wrote it all down with the stub of a pencil. 'You are not a prisoner,' he told Russell, 'but you will of course remain here until the Colonel arrives. Consider this room your quarters.'

By noon the Russians were in control of Bismarck Strasse. Street battles could still be heard raging in every direction, but no German forces had been seen since mid morning, whereas Ivan was much in evidence. Soldiers had come to their basement, scared its residents half to death, and left with every available wristwatch, Effi's included. Other men and vehicles passed by at regular intervals, and a horse-drawn canteen had opened for business some fifty metres down the street.

The shelling, of course, had stopped, and while many lingered in the basements, hoping for the safety of numbers, some ventured outdoors, drawn by curiosity and the promise of sunshine. Others, like Effi and Rosa, returned to their apartments, and Rosa spent most of the afternoon by the window, drawing the conquering army. Or, as Effi realised when she saw the drawings, the army of Rosa's liberation. The Russians looked so good, smiling and waving from the turrets of their shiny tanks; even their horses looked glad to be there.

There had been no trouble so far, but Effi feared the coming of darkness. In the event, she didn't have that long to wait – the light was only beginning to fade when the first female screams were heard in the distance. She hesitated a moment, but realised she couldn't just sit there and wait. She took Rosa to the basement and went out in search of someone to plead with.

She found one Soviet officer, but he didn't speak a word of German, and her attempts at mime drew only smiles and shrugs of non-comprehension. Walking back towards her building, she felt eyes following her, and realised how big a mistake she had made. Footsteps behind her confirmed as much, and sent a chill down her spine.

She hurried in through the door, shutting it behind her. Upstairs or downstairs? Rosa was in the basement, but the piece of paper on which Russell had written his Soviet commander's name was up in the flat.

She was still running up the stairs when she heard the front door splinter. She threw herself into the flat and began frantically searching for the paper. It had vanished.

She turned to see them in the doorway. One was short and wiry, with a shock of blond hair and gold front teeth. The other was darker-skinned and burly, with longish black hair and moustache. Boots and caps excepted, both looked as though they'd been outfitted at a rummage sale. And she could smell them from across the room.

They were both grinning at her, the small one with relish, the other with something more like hatred. 'Hello,' the blond one said, as if he was surprised to see her. He muttered something in Russian to his partner and started across the room towards her. The other man was looking round the room, presumably for portable loot.

'No,' Effi said, backing away. 'I'm too old,' she insisted, running a hand through her hair to show the grey. 'Like your mother, your grandmother.'

The big Russian said something, stopping the other in his tracks. He had one of Rosa's new drawings in his hand, and was beaming at it.

'We're friends,' Effi insisted, but the blond soldier refused to be distracted. Lunging forward he caught her by the arm and pulled her towards him. Placing a hand on top of her head, he pushed her down to her knees, then swung her onto her back. With a knee planted either side of her waist, and one hand holding her down at the throat, he started to tear at her clothing.

With a scream of fury Rosa hurtled into the room and flung herself at Effi's attacker. 'That's my mother,' she yelled, wrapping a small arm round his head. 'That's my mother!'

He grunted and swept her away, then ripped open Effi's blouse. She was finding it hard to breathe.

Rosa was still screaming, but the other man had lifted her up and was holding her at arm's length. I have to submit, Effi thought, or God knows what they'll do to her. She let herself go limp, and felt the pressure ease on her throat.

He smiled in triumph, and started undoing his trousers.

The other Russian shouted something. There was a curse from the one on top of her, and what sounded like a command from his partner. Her assailant had been halted for the moment, but was still arguing, and Effi could see the frustration bulging in his trousers. One word was being repeated over and over, and she realised what it was – Yevr'ey – the Russian for Jews. The burly soldier was pointing at Rosa's blouse, and the faded star it bore. 'Yevr'ey!' he said again.

Her assailant was reluctant to abandon his conquest, but his partner wore him down. 'Many', 'women' and 'Berlin' were words that Effi thought she recognised, and which made some sort of sense. Eventually her assailant sighed loudly, grinned at her, and pulled the blouse back across her breasts. 'Okay,' he said, as he clambered back to his feet. ' Nyet Yevr'ey.'

'We tell others. You safe,' the darker man told her in passable German. 'I also Jew,' he added in explanation.

They left, taking one of Rosa's pictures as a souvenir. Effi lay there on the floor, remembering how to breathe. Rosa lay down beside her and put her head on Effi's shoulder. 'I can tell you now,' she said. 'Rosa is my real name. Rosa Pappenheim.'

Ten minutes later two smartly uniformed Russians arrived at their door. They had been sent by the new city administration to protect Frau von Freiwald. 'Mr John Russell,' they assured her, was 'alive and well.'

Soon after eight in the morning Russell was escorted up several flights of stairs to a huge office on the top floor. Four large desks and many more cabinets lined the inner walls, yet still left space for two long leather settees, which faced each other across a low table and a dark crimson carpet. Yevgeny Shchepkin and Colonel Nikoladze were seated at either end of one settee; behind them, through two of the city's last unbroken windows, Russell could see smoke rising from the distant Reichstag.

Neither man got up. Nikoladze offered Russell a curt smile as he waved him onto the other settee, Shchepkin something warmer, and perhaps a little mischievous. His old acquaintance looked awful, Russell thought, but better than he had in Moscow. And he was pleased to see him. Shchepkin was not essential to Russell's plan, but he couldn't shake the feeling that their fates were in some way connected. That was not why Nikoladze had brought him, of course – the NKVD would still be thinking that Shchepkin was someone whom Russell might trust, and who therefore might come in handy.

Russell realised that he might be kidding himself, but he felt his hand strengthened by Shchepkin's presence. And weak as the hand was, that could only be good.

Nikoladze was not a man to waste time on pleasantries. 'So the others are dead?' was his opening line.