That evening the sirens sounded. They had debated the pros and cons of going down to the shelter, and decided that incurring the wrath of the block warden would be more dangerous than testing their disguises. The thought of being bombed didn't come into it - if they lost the bolthole, they were doomed in any case.
In the event, the three hours spent with the rest of the building's inhabitants passed uneventfully. The block warden seemed suspicious of them, but only, they quickly realised, because he was suspicious of everyone. Most people dozed or fussed over their children, and the light was dim enough to hide a circumcision ceremony, let alone their brilliant disguises. Watching the way Effi climbed the stairs after the all-clear sounded, Russell was almost convinced that she had aged twenty years in a couple of days. He was also quite pleased with his own simulation until she put him right. 'You're walking like an eighty-year-old with gout,' she told him once they were back in their room. 'I'll have to give you some lessons.'
The Fuhrer's return to Berlin had been announced the previous day, and on Thursday afternoon he spoke to the Reichstag. The whole nation was obliged to listen: turning their own radio off for a few seconds, they could still hear the voice in the distance, emanating from so many street and factory loudspeakers that it seemed to be seeping out of the earth and sky. The speech lasted for an hour and a half. Hitler began with a long, triumphalist report on how the war was going, though details of the current position were noticeably sparse. He claimed that the German war dead now amounted to 160,000, a figure which astonished and appalled Effi, but which Russell thought was probably an under-estimate. The second half of the speech was a long diatribe against Roosevelt, a man backed by the 'entire satanic insidiousness' of the Jews, a man bent only on destroying Germany on their behalf. It ended, predictably enough, with a list of the provocations that Germany had been forced to endure, and their necessary corollary, a formal declaration of war on the United States.
'He's done it,' Russell murmured with deep satisfaction. If ever the prospect of another nation entering a war was cause for celebration, then this was that moment. It was all over bar the dying, he thought.
Next morning a letter arrived for Rolf Vollmar. Its message was short and extremely sweet - 'The Kaiser Bar, Schwedter Strasse, 7pm on December 13. Ask for Rainer.'
Russell took a deep breath. Perhaps they would get out after all.
'That's tomorrow,' Effi pointed out.
'I'll go to Knieriem this evening. Just after dark.'
'Tell me if I'm being stupid,' Effi said, 'but surely the best you can get from this man is information. I mean, he's not going to have official documents at his home, is he? So there'll be nothing to show the comrades. You might just as well make something up.'
'That had occurred to me,' Russell admitted. 'If the worst comes to the worst, and Knieriem won't cooperate, that's what I'll have to do. But the real facts will come out eventually, and if it turns out that I've given false information to the Soviets there will be consequences. If Hitler loses this war, then Stalin will win it, and the NKVD will be settling a lot of old scores. I don't want us to be one of them. So while there's a chance of getting them the right information I think we should take it.'
'I suppose that makes sense,' she agreed reluctantly.
'Besides,' he added with a smile, 'I'd like to do something for the war effort.'
Franz Knieriem lived in Charlottenburg, about halfway between the S-Bahn station of that name and the Bismarckstrasse U-Bahn station. It would have been quicker to take the overground train, but Russell felt safer in the overcrowded U-Bahn. He also needed a public toilet without a resident attendant, and the only one he knew in central Berlin was secreted away next to the suburban platforms at Potsdam Station.
The first leg on the U-Bahn was uneventful. He got a seat, wedged the large travel bag between his legs, and hid behind his paper until the time came to change at Leipzigerstrasse. Another stop, and he was soon wending his way across the Potsdam Station concourse. Reaching the chosen toilet, he shut himself in a cubicle, waited until the man next door had departed, and pulled the SS uniform from the bag. The Sicherheitsdienst were as likely to wear plain clothes as uniforms, but someone like Knieriem would probably ask to see identification if he was wearing the latter. The uniform spoke for itself.
Back at Prinz-Eugen-Strasse he had tried it on, and discovered that the sleeves and trousers were overlong. Effi had shortened the former, and the latter now disappeared into the shiny boots. He placed the peaked cap on his head, rammed his own suit jacket and trousers into the travel bag, and waited a few minutes, hoping to ensure that anyone who had seen him arrive would not be around to watch him depart.
He flushed and walked out, just as another man entered the toilet. The latter saw him and instantly looked away. Russell admired himself in the mirror, and couldn't help noticing that the new arrival was suffering a little stage fright at the adjoining urinal. 'Heil Hitler,' he murmured spontaneously, inducing a strangled echo from the other man.
If the Nazis didn't get him, his sense of humour would.
He walked back out onto the concourse, and down the steps to the U-Bahn platform. His fellow-passengers seemed disinclined to jostle him, and some even managed ingratiating smiles. Two trains and twenty-five minutes later he was climbing out onto Bismarckstrasse. It was fully dark now, and the overcast sky blotted out moon and stars. He had memorised the way to Knieriem's house before leaving, but checked it with a kiosk proprietor before heading off into the even darker side streets. What he most looked forward to in the world beyond Germany was a night full of bright lights and laughter.
It took him about ten minutes to find the street and the house. Rather to his surprise, a young woman in a Nachrichtenhelferinnen uniform answered his knock on the door.
'I wish to see Herr Knieriem,' Russell said, with the air of someone who expected compliance.
She flushed for no apparent reason. 'Oh, I'm just going out. Is my father expecting you?'
'No,' he said, walking past her and into the spacious hallway. 'Please tell him Sturmbannfuhrer Scheel wishes to see him.'
She disappeared, leaving Russell to congratulate himself for not trusting an old Social Democrat. Anyone with a daughter keen enough to join an army auxiliary unit was unlikely to be handing out military secrets.
Franz Knieriem emerged, kissed his daughter goodbye, and invited Russell through to a spacious, well-heated room at the back of the house. He had lost weight since Russell had last seen him, but he still didn't look like a fighter. Thinning hair, neatly parted down the centre, topped a head that seemed too large for its features - piggy eyes, a knob of a nose, and a small fleshy mouth. Your typical Aryan.
He offered Russell a moist grip, but looked somewhat wary. 'How can I help you, Sturmbannfuhrer?'
Russell lowered himself into a plush armchair. 'Please shut the door, Herr Knieriem. This is a security matter.'
'There's no else in the house.'
'Very well. I belong to the Sicherheitsdienst, Herr Knieriem. You know who we are and what we do?'
'You...'
'We protect the Reich from its less visible enemies - spies, Bolsheviks, dissidents of all kinds.'
'But what has that to do with me?'
'Please, Herr Knieriem, do not be concerned. I did not mean to imply that you were such an enemy. The reason for my visit is this - we have information that you are about to be approached by a foreign agent. This man is a German, but he works for the Reds. You yourself were a Social Democrat, I believe?'
'A great many years ago,' Knieriem protested.