‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ Effi burst out, and the two women embraced again. Both were in tears, Russell noticed. He felt like crying himself.
New textbooks
‘We need more clothes,’ Effi said plaintively. ‘I’m wearing almost everything I brought with me.’
A wintry sun was shining in through the window, but the air inside the bedroom was cold enough to show their breath, and leaving the nest of blankets was a deeply uninviting prospect.
Soon after waking, Russell had shivered his way downstairs to brew some tea, and they’d spent the last hour reading through Effi’s new script. It was a ritual they’d shared in pre-war days — making a mockery of the Nazi-inspired storylines had been amusing in itself, and, as Russell later came to realise, a way of rendering Effi’s participation in the whole process more palatable than it might otherwise have been. But those days, as ‘The Man I Shall Kill’ made abundantly clear, were over. This storyline was far too apposite to mock, and no apologies were needed for turning it into a film.
The story itself was simple enough — an army surgeon returns to Berlin after service in the East, and seeks refuge in alcohol from the many terrible things he has seen. His own apartment has been destroyed in the bombing, so he moves into one that hasn’t, little knowing that the female owner — Effi’s character — is on her way home after years of imprisonment in a concentration camp. When she arrives back, he refuses to leave, and they eventually agree to share the space. Their relationship is slowly blossoming into love when he learns that his former CO, the man who ordered their unit to murder over a hundred Polish women and children, is living nearby. And that far from paying for his crimes, the CO has reinvented himself as a successful businessman. Despite the pleas of the woman, the surgeon decides to kill him.
In this script he succeeded, but an additional note said the final section was being re-written. ‘Which makes sense,’ Russell thought out loud. ‘I’d have you stop him. More drama, and a better political message. The civilised way, not the Nazi way. Bring the bastard to trial. And then kill him.’
‘Maybe,’ Effi said. ‘It would certainly help my part. My character’s really strong, really interesting, for the first two reels, and then she turns into a helpless bystander.’
‘Not your role in life.’
‘Not in films. At least, not when I have any say in the matter. But it could be a good film, don’t you think?
‘It could. And should be. A good sign, I’d say.’
‘Yes.’ Effi reached across to look at her watch. ‘Oh hell. I have to get up — my script meeting starts at ten. What are you doing today?’
‘I’ll probably play the journalist for an hour or so. And then I’m off to the Soviet zone.’
‘Off to see the wizard?’ she asked. They had taken Rosa to The Wizard of Oz in London.
‘Shchepkin? No. If I sign in at the Housing Office on Neue Konigstrasse I should see him tomorrow. But while I’m in the neighbourhood I might drop in on Thomas at the printing works. And then see if Uwe Kuzorra’s still working at the Alex. I’d like to thank him for saving my life.’
‘Thank him for me,’ Effi said. ‘I think I’d have missed you.’
After they parted, Russell’s first stop-off was at the American Press Camp on Argentinischeallee. Over coffee in the canteen he eavesdropped on several conversations, but the Austrian election results and their significance for Berlin were not among the topics under discussion — the young journalists seemed focussed on the imminent arrival of a baseball star whom Russell had never heard of. This was depressing, and checking out the mechanics of reporting from Berlin offered little in the way of solace. As far as he could see the current crop of American foreign correspondents were simply appending their by-lines to stories which the occupation authorities had already chosen and virtually written. His old American colleague Jack Slaney would have been appalled.
Filing stories to London was not something the Americans could assist him with. And he didn’t think the British authorities would be that eager to help, not now he’d taken out American citizenship. Dallin would have to sort it out, whenever he could bring himself to see the wretched man. There was no hurry. As Slaney had once told him, stories that thrilled or titillated lasted a matter of hours, but news that really mattered usually lasted years.
He took the U-Bahn from Oskar-Helene-Heim to Wittenbergplatz, and changed there for Alexanderplatz. He had a seat on the first train, and managed to read what little there was of the Allgemeine Zeitung. Most of the news was foreign, and he found it hard to imagine that Berliners were overly concerned with events beyond their city. His second train was slow, crowded, and extremely pungent. The long unexplained waits in the tunnels were nightmarish, particularly when accompanied by the not-so-distant sounds of explosions.
Alexanderplatz was a relief, even with the giant poster of Stalin and his usual murderous smirk. The Red Army was much in evidence, and the sight of officers and men enjoying each other’s company made Russell more conscious of the British and American obsession with hierarchy. As if to correct the impression, a Soviet general drove slowly by in an immaculate Horch 930V, looking this way and that to make sure he was being noticed. The woman beside him looked equally pleased with herself, and was probably his wife. Unlike their British and American counterparts Soviet officers were allowed to bring their spouses with them.
The Alex was still standing, its turrets and roof somewhat the worse for wear, rather in the manner of a prize-fighter proudly exhibiting a badly bruised crown and torn ears. But first he needed to visit the designated Housing Office, which was a couple of hundred metres up Neue Konigstrasse. He walked up past a troop of women shifting rubble, and a trio of young men in ragged uniforms. Two of the men were on crutches, having each lost a leg. The third was leaning on a blind man’s cane.
There was a long queue inside the Housing Office, but it moved faster than Russell expected, and a German official was soon examining the papers that the Soviet embassy in London had given him. The man gave him an almost sympathetic glance, as if he knew what Russell’s presence portended. ‘You will be hearing from us in due course,’ he said eventually, for want of anything more convincing.
Back on the pavement outside, Russell watched as another pathetic clutch of returning POWs straggled by in the middle of the road. As a Soviet jeep approached from the opposite direction, it seemed to take all their energy to step out of its path, and one man proved too slow. Clipped by the front wing of the vehicle, he tumbled to the ground. The Red Army driver shouted abuse over his shoulder and kept going, leaving the man to slowly pick himself up. His comrades plodded on, offering no help.
Russell made his way back to the Alex, and went in through the old No. 1 doors on Dircksenstrasse. There was less frenzied activity than he remembered, the faces younger but no less hard. Which was hardly surprising — in Soviet eyes, the German police force would have been irredeemably tarnished by its close association with the Nazi state. Most of the old guard would be gone, replaced by those young or politically reliable enough to satisfy the new masters. The Soviets had their own police HQ in the south-eastern outskirts, but their presence here was no less real for being invisible.
The desk sergeant was one of the few older faces, but denied any knowledge of Kriminalinspecktor Uwe Kuzorra. He suggested a personnel office on the other side of the inner courtyard, but no one there could be of any help. All the police files had disappeared, one young man told Russell. He seemed pleased by the loss, implying that it offered a welcome break with the past.