completely beside the point – Ramanichev couldn’t afford to believe him.
So what would happen? Would they put him on trial? Only if he confessed – there was no way they would give him a public platform to protest his innocence. But what could he confess to? Foolish but innocent contacts with Soviet traitors? Shchepkin was probably dead, and Russell realised, rather to his own surprise, that even betraying the Russian’s memory was hard to contemplate.
But the alternatives were worse. If he refused to confess, then the best he could hope for was a long prison sentence, probably in some God-forsaken labour camp within spitting distance of the North Pole. They might do their best to persuade him, which would be seriously unpleasant. Or they might just take him down to the basement and shoot him. His body would turn up in some Moscow alley, another foreign victim of those anti-social elements that Comrade Stalin was always talking about.
When the all-clear sounded Effi and Rosa returned to the flat. Afraid that Ali might walk into a Gestapo trap, Effi hung the end of a light-coloured scarf across the windowsill – their long-agreed signal for such an eventuality. After one last look around, she and Rosa picked up their already-packed suitcases and set off down Bismarck Strasse. There was still no sign of dawn in the eastern sky, but the street was already quite crowded with people eager to reach work ahead of the next raid. They joined the crush working its way down the steps at Knie U-Bahn station, and shared in the collective sigh of relief when it transpired that the trains were running.
The one that arrived a few minutes later was almost full, despite having only come two stops. Effi resigned herself to standing, but a young army major with an arm in a cast gallantly gave up his seat. Rosa clung to a handrail, small suitcase wedged between her legs, eyes scanning her fellow-travellers with enormous interest. They were not much to look at, Effi thought; if hope was being kindled by the seemingly imminent end of the war, it had yet to reach these faces. On the contrary, her fellow- Berliners were hollow-eyed, anxious and depressed-looking, as if fully convinced that the worst was yet to come.
More people got on at Zoo, filling every available space in the carriage. She and Rosa could have taken a main-line train from there, but Effi had reasoned that the longer they stayed underground the better, and the same service could be joined at Alexanderplatz, ten stops further on. The U-Bahn train was smelly and slow – these days every journey seemed to take three times as long – but it felt much safer.
At the Alexanderplatz booking office she purchased two singles to Fürstenwalde. She had thought long and hard about their destination, and this town an hour or so east of Berlin seemed far enough away to give them credence as refugees, yet close enough to spare them several checks en route. Of course, she might have got it completely wrong, and picked a journey that was short on conviction and long on inspections. She knew her papers would stand up to a cursory look, and was fairly confident that Rosa’s would too, but neither would survive a proper investigation. They were, after all, only tissues of credible lies.
The first check came sooner than she expected. At the top of the stairs to the elevated platform one officer in plain clothes – Gestapo most likely, though he wasn’t wearing the trademark leather coat – was sharing a checkpoint with two military policemen. As one of the latter examined their papers, Effi stole an anxious glance at Rosa, and was amazed to see her beaming happily at the probable Gestapo officer. Even more surprisingly, he was smiling back at her. Fifteen years as an actress, Effi thought, and she finally had a protégé.
It was fully light now, or as fully light as Berlin ever got these days. Several fires were burning in the Old Town, and smoke from those already extinguished
So what would happen? Would they put him on trial? Only if he confessed – there was no way they would give him a public platform to protest his innocence. But what could he confess to? Foolish but innocent contacts with Soviet traitors? Shchepkin was probably dead, and Russell realised, rather to his own surprise, that even betraying the Russian’s memory was hard to contemplate.
But the alternatives were worse. If he refused to confess, then the best he could hope for was a long prison sentence, probably in some God-forsaken labour camp within spitting distance of the North Pole. They might do their best to persuade him, which would be seriously unpleasant. Or they might just take him down to the basement and shoot him. His body would turn up in some Moscow alley, another foreign victim of those anti-social elements that Comrade Stalin was always talking about.
When the all-clear sounded Effi and Rosa returned to the flat. Afraid that Ali might walk into a Gestapo trap, Effi hung the end of a light-coloured scarf across the windowsill – their long-agreed signal for such an eventuality. After one last look around, she and Rosa picked up their already-packed suitcases and set off down Bismarck Strasse. There was still no sign of dawn in the eastern sky, but the street was already quite crowded with people eager to reach work ahead of the next raid. They joined the crush working its way down the steps at Knie U-Bahn station, and shared in the collective sigh of relief when it transpired that the trains were running.
The one that arrived a few minutes later was almost full, despite having only come two stops. Effi resigned herself to standing, but a young army major with an arm in a cast gallantly gave up his seat. Rosa clung to a handrail, small suitcase wedged between her legs, eyes scanning her fellow-travellers with enormous interest. They were not much to look at, Effi thought; if hope was being kindled by the seemingly imminent end of the war, it had yet to reach these faces. On the contrary, her fellow- Berliners were hollow-eyed, anxious and depressed-looking, as if fully convinced that the worst was yet to come.
More people got on at Zoo, filling every available space in the carriage. She and Rosa could have taken a main-line train from there, but Effi had reasoned that the longer they stayed underground the better, and the same service could be joined at Alexanderplatz, ten stops further on. The U-Bahn train was smelly and slow – these days every journey seemed to take three times as long – but it felt much safer.
At the Alexanderplatz booking office she purchased two singles to Fürstenwalde. She had thought long and hard about their destination, and this town an hour or so east of Berlin seemed far enough away to give them credence as refugees, yet close enough to spare them several checks en route. Of course, she might have got it completely wrong, and picked a journey that was short on conviction and long on inspections. She knew her papers would stand up to a cursory look, and was fairly confident that Rosa’s would too, but neither would survive a proper investigation. They were, after all, only tissues of credible lies.
The first check came sooner than she expected. At the top of the stairs to the elevated platform one officer in plain clothes – Gestapo most likely, though he wasn’t wearing the trademark leather coat – was sharing a checkpoint with two military policemen. As one of the latter examined their papers, Effi stole an anxious glance at Rosa, and was amazed to see her beaming happily at the probable Gestapo officer. Even more surprisingly, he was smiling back at her. Fifteen years as an actress, Effi thought, and she finally had a protégé.
It was fully light now, or as fully light as Berlin ever got these days. Several fires were burning in the Old Town, and smoke from those already extinguished
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