‘It’s one of the streets off Potsdamerplatz.’
‘Yes. It’s in the American zone, but only a few hundred metres from the Russian, which I guess is why they chose it.’
‘Who? What is it?’
‘You must have played Monopoly?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, someone has painted the board on the wall of a bombed-out house. It’s big. It must have taken him all night. Or her, I suppose.’
‘What for?’
‘Ah, there’s a twist. But I won’t spoil the surprise. You should drive past it on your way to work. Today, before the Russians get permission from the Americans to wipe it away.’
After dropping her at the hospital entrance, Strohm did as she suggested. The giant monopoly board was too large to miss and exquisitely detailed, but for a moment he couldn’t see the point. And then he did-the three most expensive properties had new names. Unter den Linden had become Wall Strasse, where the KPD Central Committee had its headquarters, and Grunewald had turned into Bernicke, where the same institution had its luxurious rest home. Insel Schwanenwerder, the most expensive square of all, now bore the name Seehof, where the Party had just opened an even more exclusive resort for the use of Senior Members of the Central Secretariat.
Strohm stared up at the wall, awed by the sheer amount of effort that he, she or they had put into making this oh-so-simple statement, knowing only too well that its life would be measured, at best, in days. He was indeed surprised to find it still there-if the higherups knew about it, a squad of cadres would have been sent to expunge it over the weekend, American permission or not. But surely some Party members must have seen it. A delicious possibility crossed Strohm’s mind, that those comrades who had seen the painting had failed to report its existence. And that could only be because they felt the same way he did, that he wasn’t alone, with his doubts and sense of loss.
If Strohm had had a camera, he’d have taken a picture, and sent it to the Neue Zeitung. Maybe someone already had.
He was still smiling when he reached his office, and found that Marohn had asked for him. He went upstairs expecting criticism of his conduct in Aue, but his boss had other things on his mind. Did Strohm know that General Sokolovsky, the head of the Soviet Military Administration, had written a letter to his Allied counterparts more or less claiming Soviet control over the whole of the city?
Strohm said he hadn’t. ‘Has there been a reply?’
‘Not yet,’ Marohn conceded, ‘but maybe the Western allies really will leave. Then we can get back to running a railway.’ He was clearly in a good mood-‘at least you tried’ was all he said about the trip to Aue. The only time Strohm felt disapproval was when he said he’d brought back the Horch.
‘No, you must keep it,’ Marohn told him.
‘But I don’t need a car,’ Strohm protested.
‘It’s not a matter of need; it’s a token of respect for the position you hold. All cadres above a certain level are to be allocated personal vehicles, and refusing to accept one will be interpreted as dissent. Understood?’
Strohm nodded.
On his way home he picked up a paper, but there was no news from Aue. The Soviets would keep this one quiet, he thought.
Annaliese knew him well enough not to be over-delighted with the car, simply noting that after the baby was born, they could take him or her out to the country. Strohm just grunted-on the way home from work he’d been wondering how to get rid of it, but all he’d come up with was hiding the damn thing away in a garage and throwing out the key.
As he got off the train at Zoo Station, Russell wondered whether he should make an effort to disguise himself. Some workingman’s clothes perhaps, or a pair of spectacles. But he hadn’t, and it was too late now. He pulled his hat down another centimetre and walked on towards Carmer Strasse.
Reaching the end five minutes later, he saw a couple of pedestrians and several parked cars, but neither of the former were loitering and all of the latter looked familiar. As he neared their building one of the neighbours emerged, saw him, and raised a hand in greeting before walking off in the other direction. If Beria’s men were lurking in the stairwell, they were well-concealed.
The stairwell was empty. He listened outside their door for a few moments, then rapped on it. No one answered, which seemed a good sign until he put himself in their position. Why would they?
He had tried to leave the new gun with Effi, but she had insisted he take it. ‘If they’re after us,’ she had said, ‘then they’ll be waiting for you.’
Well, were they? Russell took out the gun, turned the key, and pushed the door all the way open. There were no Russians on the sofa, and none in the bath. Everything looked exactly as they’d left it.
It was half-past two P.M.; he had half an hour to wait. He spent it by the window, eyes on the street and ears cocked for feet on the stairs. After an hour he reluctantly accepted that Shchepkin wasn’t going to ring, then belatedly checked that the phone was working. It was.
He locked the flat back up, and showed the same caution departing that he had on arrival. At a bank on Hardenberg Strasse he joined the queue for changing currency and eventually took possession of sixty new Deutschmarks. After walking back to Zoo Station, he spent the half-hour waiting in the buffet for the Wannsee train, and reading the local British newspaper. All the good news was on the front page-two days earlier, Foreign Secretary Bevin had told the world the British wouldn’t leave Berlin ‘under any circumstances’. The Americans had not yet given any such assurance, but that didn’t worry Russell. The steady stream of C-47s skimming the Wilmersdorf skyline seemed a lot more compelling than any words.
Strohm had been anticipating the radio programme for most of the day. The Hungarian Arthur Koestler had been a member of the Party in the 1930s, and Strohm had a vague memory of seeing him at a KPD meeting in the pre-Hitler years. He had worked for the Comintern in France, and as a journalist in Spain, before disillusionment caught up with him, and caused him to write the novel which RIAS had dramatized for that evening’s broadcast, Darkness at Noon.
Strohm had heard a lot about the book, but was still unprepared for the impact it had on him. He already knew it concerned a fictional Bolshevik named Rubashov, whom Stalin had turned on and imprisoned. The man’s philosophising proved fairly predictable-it was more his memories that undid Strohm. Little Loewy, the Party secretary who hanged himself, was Rubashov’s Stefan Utermann. In Darkness at Noon, the Bolshevik Rubashov journeyed from Moscow to Antwerp, and ordered Loewy to sacrifice comrades and conscience for the greater good of the Soviet Union. He had travelled the much shorter distance from Hallesches Ufer to Rummelsburg, and done exactly the same.
Strohm thought of Harald Gebauer up in Wedding, as he often did at such moments. That usually reassured him, but not this time. Harald’s criticism of the Party was implicit, because it came from the heart, and he would probably pass unnoticed for longer than those more cerebrally-gifted comrades whose critiques were spoken or written. But eventually someone would notice, and be all the angrier when they realised how long it had taken. And then someone else would discover that Strohm had known the man for years, and might be prevailed on to show him the error of his ways. The error of believing in mankind.
The play was still underway, but Strohm was caught by this glimpse into his future: Gerhard Strohm, closer of doors, firer of metaphorical bullets. Confiscator of dreams.
Once Rosa had fallen asleep, Russell and Effi discussed how long they could afford to wait for Shchepkin. They had agreed to give him until Tuesday, but how much longer than that? There was no easy answer. The moment they made the film public, their bargaining power would be finished, but so, they hoped, would be Beria’s career. At that point the MGB chief would have nothing to lose, but, unless Josef Stalin was completely impervious to world opinion, he and his country did. But would Uncle Joe act quickly enough, and kill Beria before a vengeful Beria succeeded in killing them? Even if Stalin did move promptly, the chances were still good that Russell’s role in the atomic business-not to mention his concealing of the film from his CIC bosses-would reach the light of day. Broadcasting proof of Beria’s infamy might bring justice for Sonja, her sister, and all the other women the man had probably raped or killed, and it might even lead to a diminishing of Soviet cruelty at home and abroad, but it wouldn’t do much for Russell and Effi.