David Downing - Stettin Station

His own much smaller train headed out in the same direction an hour or so later, and was soon rumbling over a long bridge above the Niemen. Another twenty minutes and it reached the frontier of the Reich, where the passengers underwent a surprisingly cursory inspection before travelling on into the newly-established Reichkommissariat Ostland. That afternoon, officials manning a checkpoint at the defunct border between Lithuania and Latvia proved considerably more zealous. Russell spent several fraught minutes in the queue, before realising that only the locals were being subjected to the sort of scrutiny that always accompanied one of Hitler's live appearances; Germans like Werner Sasowski were being waved through with a friendly smile. It was like being a white man in Africa.

The train re-started, and was soon threading its way through a large and seemingly uninhabited forest. It finally emerged on the outskirts of Riga. There was snow on the ground here, but only a couple of inches, and the sky was partly clear. As the train slowed on its approach to the station, Russell became aware of suitcases left beyond the adjoining tracks, some neatly stacked, some simply lying in the fallen snow. There were hundreds of them. A thousand, he guessed, remembering Strohm's report of the SS prescription for an ideal transport.

Riga Station was the emptiest he had seen on his three-day journey. There was one group of Germans in civilian clothes sharing a joke on the concourse, but most of the other faces had Slavic features, and safely neutral expressions to go with them. The old man who gave Russell directions did so willingly enough, but with a noticeable lack of friendliness. Latvia had been invaded twice in the last two years, and its citizens were probably still having trouble deciding which of the bastards offered them less.

Satekles Street was only a five-minute walk away. No.16 was the Continental Hotel, a three-storey building sandwiched between another, seedier-looking hotel and a seemingly abandoned garage. A heavy front door let him into a large vestibule, where a wide staircase curved upwards over a reception area containing a large oak table, an antique filing cabinet, and the obligatory row of hooks for keys. A grizzled-looking old man looked up from his half-completed crossword with evident irritation.

Russell asked for Felix.

The man got slowly to his feet, visibly wincing at the pain in his knees. 'Wait through there,' he said, gesturing towards a door.

Pushing through, Russell found himself in a smart but empty cafe-bar. He took a corner seat and settled down to wait. Several minutes passed, and he began wondering whether someone in Stettin had been tortured into mentioning Riga. Who would be next through the door – the comrades or the Gestapo? Possible salvation or certain damnation? All he could do was wait and see.

The door eventually swung open to admit a broad-shouldered Slav with thinning brown hair and a broken-toothed smile. 'My name is Felix,' he said in German.

'I have a message from Stettin,' Russell told him.

'Oh yes? I was told there would be two of you.'

'My friend had to go back to Berlin,' Russell said. 'It's a long story.'

Felix took a deep breath, shrugged, and beckoned Russell to follow him. After collecting a key from the rack, he led the way up a flight of stairs and down a long corridor to the room at the end. A bed, a water basin stand and a door-less wardrobe took up most of the space. The single window overlooked the rear yard of the garage, where several vehicles had been left to rust.

'You'll be staying here,' Felix said. 'Now, let me see your papers.'

Russell handed them over for inspection.

'Not bad,' Felix decided after going through them. 'But you need something better, an identity that goes with an official job of some sort. That shouldn't be too difficult, but leave it to me. In the meantime, don't go out. I'll have meals sent up. Nothing fancy of course, but enough to keep you from starving. We're already on the lookout for a suitable ship.'

'Ships are still moving in and out of the harbour then?'

'Yes. But not for much longer. Winter has come early this year.'

When he was gone Russell lay down on the lumpy mattress, fingers entwined behind his head. 'The end of the line,' he murmured to himself. One way or the other, it would soon be over.

By Tuesday evening Effi felt like kicking the walls. After four days alone in the flat she thought she knew what a common prison was like. She couldn't risk listening to the radio, and there were only so many times she could do one jigsaw or read week-old newspapers. If she dozed off during the day she would spend long stretches of the night praying for sleep. Whatever she did, there was far too much time for thinking.

She decided she would make herself a pack of cards, and was still searching for suitable materials when the air raid warning sounded.

It was the first time this had happened since her return, and she felt a momentary pang of fear. She remembered all the times she'd complained about having to go to the shelter, all the times she had tried to persuade John that they shouldn't bother. He had always insisted, as she'd known he would, and on those few occasions when he hadn't been there she'd always gone down on her own. No matter how long the odds were on one's own house being hit, it still seemed foolish to tempt fate.

Well, she had to tempt it now. She could hardly turn up at the shelter looking twenty years younger than she had on her last visit. She would have to just sit there in the armchair, and let John's fellow countrymen do their worst.

Or not. Barely a minute had gone by when there was an urgent knock on the door. 'Frau Vollmar,' a male voice said loudly. It was the block warden.

Did he know she was there? How could he?

There was another knock. She rose to her feet almost involuntarily, and stood there, silently urging him to go away.

She heard the key jiggling in the lock.

The bedroom, she thought. She stepped quickly through the open door, relieved that she was wearing only socks on her feet, and realised that there was only one place to hide. Feeling more than a little ridiculous, she let herself down onto her back and squeezed herself under the bed.

She could hear footfalls in the adjoining room, and see flickers of light dancing across the carpet by the half-open door. He was using a torch, she realised. She thanked God she hadn't closed the blackout curtains, which would have allowed him to turn on the lights.

Had she left any obvious proof of her presence? Would he feel the warmth of the chair she'd been sitting in? Surely he couldn't stay much longer – it must be almost ten minutes since the sirens sounded.

He pushed the bedroom door open, and the moving beam of his flashlight seemed all around her.

Not under the bed, she silently pleaded.

He walked back out. A few seconds later she heard him walk into the kitchen. Was the kettle still warm from her last cup of tea?

More footsteps, then silence. Was he by the door? She heard the click as he opened it, and the twist of the key as he re-locked it from outside. She lay there, eyes closed, heart still thumping in her chest, suppressing an absurd desire to laugh.

There was no point in moving, she told herself. The bed might cushion her against a falling ceiling.

This theory was left untested – if any bombs fell that night, they fell a long way from Prinz-Eugen-Strasse. When the all-clear sounded she crawled out from her hiding-place and sat on the bed, wondering if he would come back that evening.

He might. Better to bolt the door, she decided, and went to do so. If he tried to use his key again, he would know that she was there, but she could always make up some excuse for not opening the door at this time of night. Tomorrow would be another matter. And the day after that. He was bound to return sooner or later, and bound to discover that she was back. And once he had, then a face-to-face meeting became almost inevitable.