‘Okay.’
‘But I think he’s dead,’ Zarah insisted.
‘If he isn’t, he’s probably in prison,’ Russell said.
‘Yes, of course. Poor Jens.’
Poor Jens, Russell thought. One of the bureaucrats who had organised the deliberate starvation of Soviet cities and Soviet POWs. A mass murderer by any other name. And yet, somehow, ‘poor Jens’ seemed apt.
‘And then, being practical,’ Zarah added, ‘there’s the house in Schmargendorf. If it’s still standing, we should reclaim it. It is ours, after all. Mine, if Jens is dead.’
‘And my flat on Carmerstrasse,’ Effi said. ‘Thank God I only rented the one in Wedding. That’s just rubble now.’ She was, she realised with some surprise, beginning to feel excited at the prospect of seeing Berlin again.
‘And you must try and see Papa and Muti,’ Zarah told her.
‘I’m not sure I want to,’ was Effi’s retort. Both their parents had behaved appallingly when told of Zarah’s ordeal at Soviet hands, and Effi still found it hard to forgive them.
‘We have to try and set things right,’ Zarah told her sternly. ‘They’re old. And they don’t know any better.’
Russell and Effi’s imminent departure cast a shadow across the weekend, which cold wet weather did nothing to dispel. On Saturday morning Effi took Rosa aside, and told her, in as matter-of-fact a manner as she could manage, that she and John were going away for a few weeks. Rosa looked alarmed, but only for a few seconds, and once Effi assured her that Paul, Zarah and Lothar would be staying, the girl seemed almost eager to show how unconcerned she was. She was being brave, Effi realised, and wished with all her heart that there was no need. ‘We can write to each other,’ Effi told her, ‘and perhaps even talk on the telephone. And it won’t be long.’
Russell scoured the newspapers for news of Berlin, but the only stories on offer concerned the Nazis and their offspring. There were pieces on the trial of Hitler’s surviving henchmen in Nuremberg, which was due to open on the coming Tuesday, and what seemed a highly imaginative story about a young girl named Uschi, whom the Fuhrer had allegedly sired with Eva Braun. News of ordinary Germans, and of conditions in Germany, were conspicuous by their absence.
On Monday morning he kept his appointment at the American Embassy, and Lindenberg took him for a stroll round the sunlit Grosvenor Square. It was, the American said, the first blue sky he’d seen in more than a week.
Russell’s offer had been accepted, and a seat on Friday’s boat train provisionally booked.
‘I’ll need two,’ Russell told him, and explained about Effi. He expected objections, but the American seemed pleased that they were going together. Maybe he was a romantic. Or perhaps he thought Effi was a good influence.
‘Okay,’ Lindenberg said. ‘Once you reach Ostend, you’ll take the train to Frankfurt. From there, I don’t know. Maybe a plane into Tempelhof, maybe another train — the Russians keep changing their minds about which routes they want to obstruct. But you’ll be briefed in Frankfurt.’ He gave Russell a name and address. ‘And you can pick up your tickets here on Thursday.’
Russell thought of pointing out that the Soviets employed couriers, but decided against it. He didn’t think Lindenberg had a sense of humour, or at least not where his country and work were concerned.
After they parted, Russell walked west towards Park Lane, and then across Hyde Park towards Kensington Palace Gardens. There were several horsemen exercising their mounts on Rotten Row, and the park seemed chock-full of nannies and their infant charges — the newspapers might decry the government’s lurch towards socialism, but power and privilege seemed less than ruffled.
At the Soviet Embassy he was given ample time to study the prominently placed accounts of Dynamo’s astonishing 10-1 win over Cardiff at the weekend. When the cultural attache finally appeared, Russell informed him that Effi would be accepting the Berlin film role, and that the two of them would be arriving in the German capital towards the end of the week. He also suggested — unnecessarily, from the look on the attache’s face — that Comrade Nemedin should be apprised of this fact.
When Effi met Rosa at the school gates she was still wondering whether to mention the girl’s father, and her own intention of searching for traces once she reached Berlin. In the event, Rosa raised the subject herself. Another child in her class — a Jewish boy from Hungary — had only just heard that his father was still alive, and on his way to England. Which was wonderful, Rosa added, in a tone that almost suggested the opposite.
It took Effi a while to coax out the reason for this contradiction: they were half the way home when the girl stopped and anxiously asked her, ‘If my father comes back, will you still be my mama?’
Wednesday dawned wet and foggy, and though the drizzle soon turned to mist, visibility remained poor. When Russell and Paul took a train from Kentish Town shortly before noon, they were still hoping that conditions would improve, but the world further east was every bit as murky, and they made the long trek up Tottenham High Road expecting disappointment.
The game was still on. The queues were shorter than Russell had expected, but he soon discovered the reason — most of the fans were already inside. The crowd seemed thinner higher up, but as Paul pointed out, the further they were from the action the less they would probably see. Even close to the touchline the opposite grandstand was only a blur.
They squeezed in behind two school truants waving hammer and sickle flags, and sat themselves down on the damp concrete. There were still almost two hours until kick-off. Russell had initially hoped they would talk during the wait, but Paul had come armed with a book, and he was left alone with his newspapers.
The game in prospect got plenty of coverage, and a win was expected from Arsenal, particularly as several ‘guests’ — including Blackpool’s formidable Stanleys, Matthews and Mortensen — had been drafted in for the day. This was an England XI in everything but name, and national pride was clearly at stake.
Away from the back pages, nothing much caught his attention until an item in The Times almost took his breath away. He read the piece twice to be sure, then stared straight ahead for several seconds, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. Over the next six months, six and a half million Germans would be taken from their homes in the eastern regions of the old Reich, and forcibly relocated in the newly shrunken Germany. Six and half million! How were they going to be fed and sheltered? Or weren’t they? Stupid or callous, it beggared belief.
What sort of Germany were he and Effi going back to?
As he sat there, the local brass band began playing on the far side of the pitch. Drifting out of the fog, the tunes sounded even more mournful than usual.
At 1.45 the Dynamos emerged for their strange warm-up ritual. The conditions might be improving, Russell thought — the players on the far touchline were clearly visible, and the welcoming red flags on the West Stand roof occasionally fluttered into view. The Dynamos went back in, more minutes dragged by, before at last the two teams walked out together, the Russians surveying their surroundings with a breezy confidence, the Arsenal players looking grimly introspective.
The latter’s apprehension soon proved justified, the Russians scoring in the very first minute, and threatening another only seconds later. Soon the fog grew denser again, and the opposite stand faded from sight. The furthest players were vague apparitions at best, the linesman’s luminous flag an almost spectral presence. Stanley Matthews was playing on that side, and playing well if the roars from the opposite stand were anything to go by. But there seemed no end-product until the still-visible Dynamo keeper was suddenly seen diving in vain. 1–1.
The play surged from end to end, the action moving in and out of focus as the fog swirled across the pitch. Unlike the last match, the spirit seemed anything but friendly. Tackles were flying in from all directions, one savage lunge theatrically lit by the blaze of a magnesium flash bulb. Arsenal gradually got on top, and as half time approached they scored twice in as many minutes. There was an almost instant reply from the Russians, but Dynamo were still 3–2 down when the teams went in.