In the meantime, the harassment went on. Passenger trains now left from Friedrichstrasse, whose short platforms dictated the removal of four coaches. Single freight wagons were rejected for minor mistakes in their labelling, causing whole trains to be shunted aside. Crews were ordered to present their personal belongings for inspection, which might only take a few minutes, but the stoppages soon began to add up.
Strohm was tired of it all. He had always thought that the Western powers’ foothold in Berlin made it harder for the Soviets to let go, but now he was beginning to wonder-perhaps it was only the Western presence which prevented the Russians from tightening their grip. Either way, he wanted to know. ‘If there has to be a showdown,’ he told one colleague over lunch, ‘then let’s have it now. And Moscow should be open about it. Tell the Western Allies that they’re stopping all traffic to Berlin, and tell them what they can do to get it started again. The British and Americans started all this with their currency reform, and they can end it by coming back to the table and agreeing a four-power solution. I would understand that. More to the point, the people of Berlin would understand it. But “technical difficulties”? No one believes this nonsense. They just think we’re liars.’
His colleague gave him a pitying look. ‘This is a difficult time,’ he agreed, and changed the subject.
Back at his desk, Strohm went through the press release he had written that morning, explaining the sudden rash of mechanical defects in the wagon fleet. He sighed, and resisted the temptation to crumple up the piece of paper. He had nothing against deception-for much of his life his survival had rested on his ability to deceive his enemies. But was that what he was doing now? He seemed to spend most of his time deceiving the people he supposedly served.
After dropping Rosa off at school on Friday morning, Effi and Russell walked to the Czechoslovak Embassy on Rauch Strasse. She was met by smiles, he by frowns, but both their travel permits had been approved. Cisar was looking forward to discussing a future collaboration with Effi, and happy to answer her husband’s follow-up questions. The new Ministry of Culture had booked them into a hotel not far from the director’s home.
With their new papers safely stowed away in Russell’s pocket, the two of them walked down to Tauentzien Strasse, where Effi had shopping had to do. The pavements were crowded for ten in the morning, particularly given the dearth of goods on display in store windows, but Effi wasn’t surprised. ‘Zarah said it was like this on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘With all the rumours of currency reform, everyone’s spending what money they have while it’s still worth something.’
As if to prove her point, a woman walked by with an exceptionally ugly table lamp under each arm.
‘I guess we’re the lucky ones,’ Russell said. The Americans had always paid him in dollars, and Thomas had helped Effi shift some of her earnings into Swiss francs. Whatever transpired over the next few weeks, they would be all right. At least in terms of money.
The theatrical shop wasn’t overwhelmed with customers-bulk-buying makeup supplies as a hedge against inflation had obviously not caught on. Effi went in to replenish her personal stocks, which she hadn’t used since the war. Then she’d been ageing her own appearance; making Janica look younger would be more of a challenge.
Russell waited outside, watching other shoppers walk by. The procession of faces-most agitated or shut down, very few smiling-got him thinking about the city and its recent history. In the 1920s, when he had come here to live, there had been few places in the world more exciting, either politically or culturally. Then the Nazis had re-cast it as the capital of their swelling boil of an empire, and their enemies had reduced it to rubble. For three years the politics and culture had grown interesting once more, but there was no doubt in Russell’s mind that the shutters were coming back down. So what now, division or Soviet takeover? Which sort of prison would it be?
Back at the flat, he barely had time to pack a small bag before kissing Effi goodbye and setting out for Fohrenweg. Merzhanov and the ordered jeep were waiting for him, the former looking smart in American civvies. The Russian wore a wary expression on his face during their chauffeur-driven journey to Tempelhof, as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck.
Their plane was waiting in a distant corner of the airfield, one of many DC-3s parked around the perimeter. Russell’s accreditation saw them straight on board, where seven other passengers were already waiting. They all looked German, but none seemed disposed to exchange any form of eye contact, let alone smile or converse. Merzhanov’s face was now sporting an idiot grin, which only faded as they roared down the runway.
The flight to Rhein-Main took a little under two hours, the wait for their connection to Munich a little over. Another jeep was waiting in the Bavarian capital, and by five o’clock they were crossing the border between the American zones of Germany and Austria. At CIC HQ in Salzburg, Russell found an old acquaintance waiting-he had crossed paths with Major Rick Sewell on several occasions, and as far as he knew he had caused no lasting offence.
‘Johannsen let us know you were coming,’ Sewell said, as he looked Merzhanov over. ‘Sing a good song, did he?’
‘Oh yes,’ Russell agreed. The American had put on weight since their last meeting, the buttons of his tunic straining to contain his new belly.
‘Well, let’s get him tucked up in bed. I’ll drive ’em,’ Sewell told the young corporal who’d collected them from Munich.
‘Yes, sir.’
Sewell, as Russell now remembered, thought jeeps cornered best on two wheels. He hung on grimly as they wove their way through the early evening traffic, occasionally glancing over his shoulder to check that Merzhanov was still with them. Soon they were out of the city, and jolting along the hilly road which led to the farm the CIC used as a safe house. Russell had been there the previous year, after Sewell’s boss, in dire need of an interpreter, had virtually press-ganged him into helping out.
Behind him, the Russian was staring at the mountains filling the southern horizon the way someone raised in a desert might gaze at an ocean. At that moment he looked the picture of innocence, not the lust-sick deserter and traitor which most of his erstwhile comrades would think him. But what did that matter? As long as he kept his mouth shut. And the film lived up to its billing.
The safe house had a permanent staff of six-two housekeepers and four armed guards on twelve-hour shifts. Merzhanov was introduced to those on duty, shown his private sleeping quarters, and offered dinner. The man looked profoundly pleased with life, Russell thought as he left, like someone who had taken a difficult decision and been thoroughly vindicated. Or would be, once Janica was sharing the bed. Before leaving, Russell had taken Merzhanov aside and forcibly reminded him not to mention the film.
Sewell was chatty on the ride back into town, but Russell wasn’t feeling sociable. ‘I was up at five A.M.,’ he lied glibly, when the American suggested a bar. ‘I can hardly keep my eyes open.’
‘Then I’ll take you to your hotel. Maybe tomorrow.’
‘If I’m still here,’ Russell promised, knowing perfectly well he wouldn’t be. ‘I assume Father Cecelja is still in Alt Aussee?’
‘He is. I guess you’ll need a jeep in the morning.’