And so, apparently, were the Soviets. Each time the news was repeated, it came with fresh hints of a Russian response, and at midnight it was finally made official-all rail and road passenger traffic between Berlin and the Western zones had been summarily halted. By this time Rosa was fast asleep, whereas Effi, like hundreds of thousands of other Berliners, was much more awake than she wanted to be, staring blankly at the radio, waiting for someone to say something hopeful.
Russell picked up the news at Rhein-Main on the Saturday morning. He had known something was up from the moment he arrived at the sprawling airbase as both people and planes seemed to be charging around like headless chickens. At one spot on the edge of the tarmac a surreal pile of passenger seats had accumulated, torn out, he later realised, to make more room for supplies.
Did the Western Allies really think they could sustain their Berlin sectors by air? They might be able to fly in enough food, but how would Berliners cook it? How would they heat their homes? The Soviets only had to cut off the fuel supplies to the power stations, and that would be that. And if, as seemed increasingly likely, they really meant business this time, then that was exactly what they would do. How could the Allies fight them? With coal planes?
That morning they seemed reluctant to increase Berlin’s population by even one-Russell needed a phone call from BOB to secure him passage in the belly of a C-47, jammed between sacks of flour and potatoes. And if the physical discomfort was bad, the stress of listening to the two young pilots imagine Soviet fighters behind every approaching cloud was even worse. After listening to that for an hour, Russell was almost wishing that the Russians would shoot them down.
He got back to Carmer Strasse early that afternoon. Effi and Rosa returned from the park a little bit later, and while Rosa was using the toilet he asked Effi if she’d watched the film. ‘No,’ she told him, ‘I was waiting for you.’
He felt strangely reluctant to watch it himself, more because it felt like another burnt bridge than because of its probable content. ‘Let’s both wait for Shchepkin,’ he suggested. ‘Before I left, we arranged a meet for tomorrow-I can bring him straight back here. If Zarah can take Rosa, that is.’
‘We were all going to see The Wizard of Oz,’ Effi said wistfully. ‘I suppose I’ll have to feel unwell.’
That evening the three of them went in search of a slap-up dinner on Ku’damm. There were many others doing the same, either drawn out by the sense of gathering crisis or simply intent on spending their Reichsmarks while they could. The authorities still held that the currency reform didn’t apply to the city, but few Berliners were confident of things remaining that way, and already some restaurateurs were only accepting payment in dollars. Small rows were breaking out up and down boulevard, with would-be customers insisting that their money was still legal tender, and proprietors just as certain that it wouldn’t be for very much longer.
Russell’s dollars secured them a table in a recently re-opened bistro, long renowned for its pfifferling mushrooms. Though now supplied by an entrepreneurial Red Army unit, they were still delicious. Sitting, eating, chatting-the evening passed more than pleasantly. A last chance to breathe easily, Russell thought, because the minute Beria knew they had the film everything would change, for better or for worse.
Rosa was smiling at him. He could see how happy his daughter was that they were all together again, and for a moment he felt almost overwhelmed by the enormity of the risk they were taking. With evenings like this still possible, how could he say that the old life couldn’t be sustained?
But it couldn’t, he knew it couldn’t. Sooner or later a juggler dropped a ball, and Russell’s arms felt more tired by the week. Life was a risky business, and one needed wisdom about choosing which risks to take. And this opportunity did seem to offer a huge reward-to all of them-at a relatively low risk. In the end, it was a miracle that any one of them had survived the war, let alone all three. Maybe fate had them under its wing, he thought.
The Tiergarten almost looked like its old Sunday self the next morning, at least insofar as the people walking there were concerned. The trees might still be saplings, the open spaces pocked with craters, but hundreds of families were strolling across the re-sown grass, enjoying the warm sunshine.
As he waited for Shchepkin, Russell wondered whether to mention Don Stafford. Did he want to know whether the Russian had arranged Stafford’s death? The answer, of course, was yes, if he hadn’t, and no, if he had. But if Shchepkin had, Russell knew he would never admit it, and so eliciting a denial would serve no purpose. Russell knew he would just have to live with fearing the worst.
The Russian looked worse than he had the previous week. Maybe it was the brightness of the light, but his lips seemed almost purple, his cheeks tinged with grey. He seemed in good enough spirits, though, and eagerly asked about the film.
‘We’ve got it,’ Russell told him.
‘And?’
‘You’re invited to the premiere.’
‘You haven’t looked at it yet. So when?’
‘Now, if you’re not too busy.’
Shchepkin assured him that he wasn’t.
They took a tram from the park entrance to the Zoo Station, and walked on towards Carmer Strasse.
In the flat, Effi had the projector all set up. The first thing that became apparent was the quality of the film-Soviet technology in this field had clearly come on apace. The light was poor, and parts of the room seemed pools of shadow, but the human occupants were clearly recognisable. If the man in the dressing gown wasn’t Beria, then it was his double.
‘Oh my God, it’s Sonja Strehl,’ Effi said, as the one of two women’s faces turned towards the camera. ‘When did you say this was filmed?’ she asked Russell.
‘In February, according to Merzhanov.’
‘But she didn’t die until the end of the March.’
‘No. Do you know the other woman?’ Russell asked.
‘No, but she can’t be more than sixteen.’
‘Does Beria have a reputation for liking them young?’ Russell asked Shchepkin.
‘So it’s said,’ the Russian replied tersely.
The women were undressing, presumably at Beria’s command. There was certainly nothing in their faces that suggested pleasure or excitement. Watching, Russell felt ashamed of the stir in his groin.
Effi wanted to run, or at least to close her eyes, but she forced herself to keep watching. Sonja’s lips were moving, but Beria’s eyes were on the girl, and as he moved forward to grab her by the wrist his penis sprang out of his robe.
Things happened fast after that: Sonja flung aside, the girl’s run to the door, a gun in Beria’s hand. As he circled the kneeling, shaking girl like a cat tormenting a petrified mouse, Effi finally did close her eyes, and when Russell’s ‘oh shit’ forced them open again, the girl was a crumpled heap in the background, and Beria was walking towards Sonja, pushing her across the edge of the bed and taking her from behind. After pulling out, he held her face down with his knee as he carefully emptied the gun, then turned her over and forced it into her grip.
‘Fingerprints,’ Russell murmured.
Using a handkerchief, Beria carefully retrieved the gun, and after retying his dressing gown and smoothing back his hair in front of the mirror, he knocked on the door and was swiftly let out. Once he was gone, Sonja groped her way across the carpet to cradle the dead girl’s head in her arms, shoulders shaking with grief for what felt like several minutes, before the film abruptly cut off.