White flags flew from many surviving buildings, red from more than a few. All of the swastikas had vanished, but exhortatory posters still clung to walls, some flapping wildly in the breeze of their passage, as if keen to detach themselves. A dawn had followed the darkest hour, but not the one intended.
And then they were leaving Berlin, and the smell of death wafted away, and the spring seemed suddenly real. A hot sun was beating down, turning dew into mist across the emerald fields.
In the third jeep, Paul found himself thinking about the previous spring, when he and Gerhart had joined the regular army. He could see his friend now, jumping down from the train, and staring entranced at the vast Russian plain that stretched away before them. He could see the surprise on Neumaier’s face as the bullets took him, see the love in Werner’s face when he spoke of his mother and sister.
But it wasn’t painful any more, not for him. It was only painful for the other Paul, the one he had left behind. There was no longer a road leading home for him.
In the jeep ahead, Zarah was crying on Effi’s shoulder. For three days and nights she had conquered the impulse to resist, and allowed the same quartet of Russian soldiers to rape her again and again. Proud of their amenable German girlfriend, the foursome had kept their other comrades at bay, and probably saved her from serious physical harm. She knew in her heart she had done the right thing, but still she couldn’t stop weeping.
They had all suffered, Effi thought. Herself least of all, or so it now seemed. She’d been in terrible danger on several occasions, but no one had ever laid a hand on her. Those first weeks back in Berlin, alone in the flat in Wedding, had been by far the worst of her life, but often, in the years that followed, she had felt more useful, more complete, more alive, than she ever had as a movie star. Saving lives certainly put acting in perspective.
And then there were Rosa, Paul and Thomas. She could only guess at the damage done to the young girl’s heart, and at the damage done to Paul’s. Thomas had been through the horrors of the First War, but even his eyes held something new, a weight of sadness that was not there before.
Yet they were the lucky ones, alive, with all their limbs and loved ones to care for.
There was an undamaged farmhouse across the field to her left, smoke drifting lazily up from its chimney. It had probably looked much the same when she and John had driven this road en route to their pre-war picnics. Not all the world was ruins.
There was much to mend, but it could be done. One heart at a time. Just as long as he came back to her.
Russell settled down to wait. It was around 120 kilometres to the Elbe – in ordinary conditions a two-hour drive each way. Add an hour for haggling, then double the lot, and perhaps the Swede would be back by nightfall.
He wasn’t. Russell had another night of broken sleep, woken by each step on the stairs, each revving engine on the street outside. Had they run into something on the road, been ambushed by Goebbels’ ludicrous Werewolves? Had the Americans refused to take them?
When he finally awoke something seemed strange, and it took him a while to work out what it was. He couldn’t hear a war. The guns had fallen silent.
He was still digesting this when a young officer came to collect him.
Erik Aslund was downstairs in the lobby, Nikoladze waiting by the door. The Swede looked exhausted. ‘They’re across the river,’ he told Russell.
‘You’ve only just got back?’
‘There were arguments, radio messages to and fro. But we won through in the end. Frau von Freiwald – Fraulein Koenen, I should say, now that I know who she really is – she wouldn’t take no for an answer. And when the Americans found out she was a movie star, they didn’t dare refuse her. There were a lot of journalists at the American army headquarters, all looking for a story.’
Russell smiled. He wondered what the journalists would say if they knew that the price of the movie star’s freedom was a Russian atomic bomb. He thanked the Swede for all his help.
‘You’re welcome,’ Aslund said. ‘I hope we meet again, when things are more settled.’
‘I hope so too,’ Russell agreed, shaking the offered hand. He could feel Nikoladze’s impatience.
‘So where are the papers?’ the Georgian asked, with the Swede barely out of the door.
‘In Dahlem. They’re buried in my brother-in-law’s garden.’
‘They had better be,’ Nikoladze replied.
They had, Russell thought, as the two of them walked down the steps. He was beginning to wish he’d indulged Varennikov, and buried them deeper. If they got to Dahlem and found a crater in the vegetable patch, he could see Nikoladze shooting him on the spot.
Out in the street, two jeeps sandwiched a gleaming Horch 930V. Russell wondered where Nikoladze had found such a car, and then remembered that the Red Army had passed through the Babelsberg a few days earlier. The model had been a favourite with Goebbels’ movie moguls.
A Russian map of Berlin was spread across the leading jeep’s bonnet. He, Nikoladze and a Red Army lieutenant gathered round it, pinpointed their destination, and worked out the route.
‘In the front,’ Nikoladze told Russell, as they walked back towards the Horch.
Yevgeny Shchepkin was sitting in the back, wearing the usual crumpled suit and an expression to match.
Russell got in beside the young Red Army driver, who gave him a crooked grin. The lead jeep started off, small Soviet flags fluttering on the two leading corners. It was a beautiful morning, warm and sunny, with a few fluffy clouds gliding like Zeppelins across a blue sky. Two thin columns of smoke were rising to the north, but the city’s silence seemed almost uncanny, the noise of the vehicles unusually loud in the devastated streets.
They made good progress for twenty minutes, but halfway down Haupt Strasse were halted by a Red Army roadblock. The lieutenant walked back to tell Nikoladze that a sniper was being rounded up, and that they’d only be there for a few minutes. They waited in silence, Nikoladze tapping rhythms on his armrest. After almost half an hour had passed without further news, he got out of the car and strode forward in search of someone to bully.
The driver climbed out too, and lit a surreptitious cigarette. It was the first time Russell and Shchepkin had been alone together.
‘My daughter told me about your conversation,’ the Russian said.
‘Natasha? She reminded me of you.’
Shchepkin grunted. ‘Then God help her.’
‘How long were you in prison?’ Russell asked.
‘I was arrested in November.’
‘For what?’
Shchepkin shrugged. ‘I’m still not sure. My boss fell out with Comrade Beria, and I think I got caught in the crossfire. An occupational hazard, I’m afraid.’
‘Time for a change of occupation’ Russell suggested dryly.
Shchepkin smiled at that. ‘What do you think I should do? Retire to the country and raise bees like your Sherlock Holmes?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘That’s not the sort of world we live in any more.’
‘No.’ Russell agreed. He could see his own potential nemesis in the distance, walking back towards them. ‘This is Nikoladze’s world,’ he murmured, as much to himself as to the Russian.