'Stay where you are,' he whispered on reaching their boxcar, his eyes fixed on the distant head of the train. Looking forward, Russell could see a small figure climbing up into the cab, and after a few seconds several bursts of yellow steam rose into the air as the locomotive pulled away. 'Come,' the guard said. 'Quickly.'
They climbed down, wincing as they gripped the icy handrails. The guard examined them closely, presumably to make sure he had the correct escapees, and couldn't suppress a private smile at recognising the film star behind the half-eroded make-up. 'Follow me,' he said, turning back in the direction of his brake van. At the end of the adjacent train they started zigzagging their way across the fan of tracks, keeping as close as possible to the cover of other rolling stock, and finally reaching the side of a goods warehouse. Following this, they eventually came to a road transshipment area, where a line of darkened lorries was parked.
A man loomed out of the dark, making them jump. 'This way,' he said, leading them to the lorry at the end of the line. 'In the back,' he ordered, offering Effi a hand up and briefly illuminating the inside with a flashlight. Large crates took up most of the space, but a passage had been left between them. Effi and Russell ensconced themselves at the far end, and listened as their helpers shifted crates across the opening. 'It's like being a child again,' Effi murmured, mostly to herself. The sense of being completely dependent on others was almost comforting.
The back doors slammed, and a few moments later the engine sprang to life. They moved off, bumping their way across what felt like tracks before finding the smoothness of a real road. From what Russell remembered of Stettin's geography, he guessed they were somewhere to the south and east of the city's centre, close to the main dock area. Where they were going he had no idea, but the journey seemed to take forever, and when the doors were finally opened the grey light of dawn flooded their hiding place. The crates, Russell saw, each contained a single huge glass bottle of some chemical or other.
They climbed down onto a street of working-class apartment blocks and small industrial premises. Lights were showing in some windows, as the occupants got ready for the day ahead. 'Where are we?' Russell asked the driver, who now had a partner in tow, a younger man with pockmarked cheeks.
'Bredow. You know where that is?'
'To the north of the city?'
'That's right. Kurt will take you in. And good luck,' he added over his shoulder as he headed for his cab.
'This way,' the young man told them, heading for the entrance to the nearest block. 'It's the top floor,' he added, almost apologetically.
They twice met men coming down, but neither paid them much attention, and their companion seemed unworried by the fact that they'd been seen. Was the whole block dependable, Russell wondered. He sincerely hoped so.
On reaching the top floor, the young man led them to the right and knocked softly on the nearest door. A woman opened it, beckoned them in, and introduced herself as Margarete Otting. She was about forty-five, with a tired face and short blonde hair. 'We're both working Sunday shifts, and my husband has already left,' she said. 'And I am late. Please make yourselves at home. We shall be back soon after four.'
'Thank you for...' Effi started to say, but Frau Otting was already halfway through the door. 'I must go too,' Kurt told them. 'Someone will come to see you this evening, after Margarete and Hans return from work. In the meantime, please don't go out, and make as little noise as possible.' The door closed behind him, leaving Russell and Effi to share a look of surprise.
They explored the apartment. It was not much bigger than the one on Prinz-Eugen-Strasse, with a small book-lined sitting room and two bedrooms, one of which clearly belonged to Margarete and Hans. The other had twin beds, and showed traces of adolescent occupation. A photograph in the sitting room showed a happier-looking Margarete sitting beside an impishly-smiling Hans, with two serious-looking young men in army uniform standing behind them. The books that lined the walls were a mixture of detective novels and European history, with one thinned-out shelf of philosophy and political theory. Glancing along the latter, Russell reached the conclusion that all the Marxist tomes had been removed.
Effi was standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. 'I guess we can lie down in the boys' room,' she said.
Hans Otting arrived home first, and seemed almost over-pleased to meet them. He was one of those truly generous people, Russell realised, with all the joy and heartache that implied for his more practical wife. They were, as Effi put it later, like a goyish version of the Blumenthals. He worked in the docks as a stevedore, she on the local trams, and their one surviving son was serving with Rommel in North Africa. The elder boy had been killed in Russia the previous July.
Margarete Otting seemed more worried by their presence than her husband, but was careful to show no obvious signs of resentment. She was clearly delighted by the food they had brought from Berlin, and with the large supply of ration tickets which they would probably be leaving behind. The Gestapo might descend on her flat, but she wouldn't starve.
The four of them had just finished eating when the promised visitor arrived. A short, bald, tough-looking character in his fifties, and clearly an old comrade of the Ottings, he asked after their son in Africa before introducing himself to Russell and Effi. 'I am Ernst,' he said, 'and I am in charge of the arrangements for your... I suppose "escape" is the only word that really fits.' He offered them both a smile, which Russell wanted to find more convincing. 'The plan is to get you aboard a ship for Sweden. An iron ore ship. There's one due to dock on Wednesday evening - it will be unloaded during the next day and then leave as soon after dark as possible. Now the authorities watch these boats very carefully in the hours before sailing, but hardly at all before that, so we plan to get you aboard and well hidden on Wednesday evening. Do you understand?'
'Of course,' Russell said, his hopes rising.
'The voyage will take about forty hours,' Ernst said. 'You should reach Oxelosund on Friday morning. Someone from the Stockholm embassy will meet you there, and take charge of the documents you are carrying. '
The next two days seemed replete with more than the usual number of hours. During the day they had the apartment to themselves, and read until their eyes could no longer cope with the inadequate light. There was no radio, but Russell scoured the morning paper, which Hans brought back each evening, for news of themselves and the war's progress. The same pictures of him and Effi were repeated, but the accompanying words had shrunk to a simple demand that any sighting be immediately reported. Hans seemed almost amused by it all, but his wife, staring at the offending photographs, looked almost stunned, and Effi found herself praying that the Ottings would not suffer for their generosity.
After Russell had mentioned in passing how unused he was to staying indoors all day, Hans took him and Effi down the corridor, through an unmarked door, and up a single flight of stairs to the roof, where a host of washing lines were waiting for better weather. The smell of the sea, thirty kilometres to the north, was faint but unmistakable.
An almost full moon was rising in the east, bathing the city and its river in pale light, and after Hans went back down the two of them stayed out in the bitter cold for as long as they could endure it, taking in what might be their last real sight of Germany.