Reaching the wide Mullerstrasse, he could see the kiosk outside the Leopoldplatz U-Bahn station. The level of traffic reminded him of a prewar Sunday, and only a handful of pedestrians were out on the pavements. A stiff breeze was funnelling down the street, and he instinctively placed two fingers over the false moustache to hold it in place.
When he reached the kiosk the proprietor, an old man wearing a woolly hat remarkably similar to his own was deep in conversation with what looked like a regular customer. He paused to serve Russell, who remembered at the last moment that the Volkischer Beobachter was unlikely to be the paper of choice in an old Red stronghold like Wedding. He asked for Der Angriff and the Berlin edition of the Frankfurter Zeitung, and thumbed anxiously through them in search of his former face.
'You won't find the latest news in there,' the regular customer volunteered, causing Russell to look up with something approaching alarm.
'The Japanese have attacked the Americans,' the old proprietor said mournfully.
'In Hawaii,' the customer added. 'Their big naval base there.'
'When?' Russell asked.
'Yesterday, I think. The man on the radio wasn't too clear. I mean, it's probably the middle of the night there now, but whether it's yesterday night or tomorrow night I couldn't tell you.'
Russell couldn't help smiling - he had never got the hang of the International Date Line himself. 'But the Americans haven't declared war on us?'
'Not yet,' the customer said cheerfully.
Effi was going through the normal motions, bathing in what seemed ample hot water, but feeling far from normal. After drying herself, she carried the wall-mirror into the living room, propped it up on the table, and began turning herself into Eva Vollmar. Dabbing away with the make-up brush, she told herself that anticipating a turn of events was not the same as being ready for one. The very real possibility that she would never see her sister, parents or nephew again was hard to accept. Impossible, in fact.
She got up abruptly and switched on the People's Radio, hoping for some music to lift her spirits. It was Wagner, who always left her feeling more depressed. She turned him off, and resisted a sudden urge to throw the radio across the room.
Her transformation complete, she pulled back the screening from the street and courtyard windows, letting the sunlight in. What she could see of the street was empty, and she found herself wondering what she would do if Russell was arrested and didn't come back. Go back home and start clamouring for his release, she supposed.
And then he hove into view, paper under his arm, ridiculous woolly hat on his head, exhaling clouds of life into the cold air. Watching him walking towards her, she felt love well up inside her.
'The Japanese have bombed Pearl Harbour,' were his first words on entering, before her new appearance left him temporarily speechless.
'Where's that?' she asked.
'In Hawaii, in the middle of the Pacific. It's the main American naval base.'
'So America is in the war now?'
'It's at war with Japan. They might not want to take on Germany at the same time. I don't know.'
'Oh,' she said, disappointed. For a moment an end had seemed in sight.
'But I can't see how they'll be able to keep the two wars separate,' Russell added thoughtfully. He imagined the scene in the Consulate on Unter den Linden. They would be destroying all the papers, preparing themselves for internment. Any lingering chance of help from that quarter was well and truly gone. He wondered whether George Welland would ever get out now.
'What about us?' Effi asked. 'Are we in the paper?'
'No, not yet. This evening perhaps, but I think it'll only be me. I don't think Goebbels will be keen to let on that one of his favourite actresses has gone over to the enemy.'
'But I haven't,' she said instinctively. 'I'm not against Germany. I'm against them.'
'I know you are,' Russell admitted. 'But they think they are Germany.'
'They're not.'
'I know. Look, I've got to try and see Strohm, and it might as well be today. There's no point in waiting.'
'No,' Effi agreed, hope rising in her eyes.
Seeing that hope, Russell wished he had something to justify it. How could he convince the comrades to help them?
It only took him a few minutes to remember Franz Knieriem.
The sky was clouding over again as he walked down Gartenstrasse, the vast bulk of the Lazarus Hospital rearing up in front of him, the long low buildings of the Stettiner Goods Station lining the other side of the street. Johann's Cafe was sandwiched between a closed cobbler's and a barber's, its steamed-up windows as effective as curtains at concealing the interior. He pushed open the door and walked in.
The cafe was larger inside than he expected, a long narrow room some four metres wide and over twenty long, with tables for four and eight flanking a single aisle that stretched into the gloomy interior. Almost all were occupied by men, most of them in overalls, a few in suits. Three waitresses were taking and delivering orders, flitting to and fro between the tables and a small counter area halfway down, which was obviously connected by dumb waiter to the floor above or below.
Russell walked two-thirds of the way down and then retraced his steps. There was no sign of Strohm, and a table near the entrance seemed his safest bet. He took an empty seat on one of the large tables, smiling back at the curious glances of the five men already sitting there. The food looked less than inviting, but then he hadn't really felt hungry since Kuzorra's revelation. When the waitress - a pinched-face girl of about fourteen - arrived to take his order, he just asked for a bowl of whatever soup was on offer. It was potato and cabbage, but when it came he detected few signs of the latter. He ate slowly, and by the time he was finished the cafe clock read almost twelve-twenty. On his way there he had fretted over whether Strohm would see through his disguise, but with each passing moment it seemed increasingly unlikely that the German-American would show up. The crowd was gradually thinning out, as if this particular shift was drawing to a close.
He ordered a coffee he didn't want and sat with it, hoping against hope. It was twenty-five to one when his prayers were answered, and Strohm walked in with three other men. Russell tried to catch the other man's eye, and thought he'd succeeded, but Strohm simply looked through him. His disguise was obviously effective.
The newcomers occupied a four-seater two tables down, Strohm next to the aisle with his back to the door. Now what? Russell asked himself. Should he just sit there and wait, and hope that Strohm noticed him on the way out? What if he didn't?
No, he had to make the running somehow. Strohm would probably recognise his voice.
He sipped at his coffee as they ordered, received and began eating their meals, then strode past their table to the counter and bought a packet of the cheapest cigarettes. He then walked slowly back down the aisle, apparently intent on opening the packet, actually willing Strohm to look up and notice him.
He didn't.
Russell played his last card, 'accidentally' scattering pfennigs alongside Strohm's table, and then sinking to his knees beside the German-American in order to retrieve them. 'I'm sorry about this,' he said, and thought he could feel the man beside him stiffen. Gathering up his last coin, Russell got to his feet, looked Strohm straight in the eye, and walked back to his table. He knew he'd been recognised. If only for a split second, Strohm's eyes had widened with surprise.