They climbed down the steps to the backyard. Beyond the gate, a single railway line curved along the back of the houses, beyond that, a gentle slope leading down to the river, scattered with trees and the reminders of war. A line of oil barges was heading upstream, presumably from Romania. ‘We must be quick,’ Russell said. ‘I was asked to get your appreciation of the situation, and some sort of list.’
‘The first is easy,’ Nedic said, looking animated for the first time. ‘Tito and his followers have treason in their hearts. They are traitors to the Cominform, and to our own revolution. The comrades in Moscow must act soon, or it will be too late. Tell them there is no hope of a political solution-a show of force is needed to galvanise all those comrades who have fallen for Tito’s lies. They will know best what to do, but just moving some troops to the border would bring many comrades to their senses. I am sure of it.’
Russell wasn’t, but that was neither here nor there. ‘And the list?’ he asked, hoping there wouldn’t be one.
‘I have typed out the names of every member of the Central Committee,’ Nedic told him. ‘All you have to remember is a number-72731. If a new leadership is deemed necessary, then the seventh, twenty-seventh and thirty-first comrades on the list can be relied upon. As of course can I.’
It was better than Russell expected. But how would he explain a list of YCP Central Committee members?
‘It was printed in Red Star last year. You copied it out and brought it with you, planning to interview all the comrades that you could.’
‘Sounds feasible.’
‘The list is inside. But one last thing,’ Nedic said, pausing at the back door. ‘You must stress what little time is left. We could all be arrested tomorrow, and once we’re on Goli Otok, there will be no one left here to invite them back.’
Russell nodded, and stepped back into the house. They had only been outside for a few minutes, but he could almost feel the suspicion seeping from the bugs. He silently accepted Nedic’s list, mentally repeated the number, and stepped out through the front door. As he’d expected, there was a man loitering a short way down the street, one who suddenly felt like a walk the moment Russell appeared.
But he wasn’t stopped and searched on his way back to the hotel. He spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening transcribing his notes of the interview and writing the article he thought his hosts wanted, a mattress of loyalty on a bed of defiance. That finished, he celebrated with the most luxurious meal he could find, which was neither that good nor that expensive.
The good weather came to an abrupt end while he was eating, rain beating on the windows of the restaurant like someone demanding entrance. No cab appeared to save him a drenching, so he took a hot bath to ward off a cold-an old wives’ tale, no doubt, but a pleasant end to a difficult day.
On Thursday, Effi travelled out to Zehlendorf for lunch with Lisa Sundgren. ‘I’ve got nothing for you,’ she told the other woman as they entered the hotel dining room. ‘My KPD friend said he’d talk to a Czech comrade, but he hasn’t had time to meet him yet.’
‘Oh that’s a pity,’ Lisa smiled. ‘I’m doing so badly myself, I was hoping you’d come up with a miracle.’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Well let’s eat anyway. There’s not much choice, but the food’s not bad here. Better than I expected.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ Effi said, scanning the rest of the clientele. Most looked American.
After they had ordered, Lisa described several recent visits to the recently reopened Czechoslovak embassy. ‘They’ve never told me that I can’t have a visa. They just say it’ll take a long time, longer than they know I’ve got in Berlin, so there’s no point in my even applying. And they’re so totally unsympathetic. I’ve seen three different men there, and all exactly the same-cold, indifferent, almost cruel. One actually told me that many Germans were killed in 1945, so my daughter was probably dead anyway.’ Lisa shook her head. ‘And she may be, I know that, but …’
Their food arrived, limiting conversation for the next few minutes.
‘I’ve met two other women who are looking for their children,’ Lisa said eventually. ‘One in Poland, one in Moravia. After the Moravian woman had listened to my story, she warned me that the Czech government would be afraid of letting me back in, in case I demanded my first husband’s business back, and kicked up a fuss when I was refused. So I went back to the embassy and said I was more than happy to sign away any rights to compensation, that I just wanted my daughter back. And all they said was, “You have no rights to sign away”.’
‘Bastards,’ Effi agreed.
‘And if they did suddenly change their minds and gave me a visa, now I wouldn’t trust them to let me out again.’
‘My KPD friend … how did he put it? He thinks the new government’s being more Soviet than the Soviets; that they’re seeing everyone as a potential enemy at the moment. But he also believes that things will settle down in a few months.’
‘I can’t wait that long. And I don’t think my husband will agree to a second trip. I’m beginning to think-I don’t even know if I should be telling you this-but I’m beginning to think that Uschi’s only way out is the one I took.’
‘But you can’t even contact her.’
‘I know. But this Moravian woman, she knows people who are willing to carry messages across the border. For money, of course. And she thinks they might also be willing to supply travel permits, and other papers. Forgeries, I suppose. It’ll be expensive, but I’ve already spent a fortune getting here, and to go back empty-handed …’
‘Be careful,’ Effi warned. ‘There are thousands of Berliners still looking for lost relatives, and a whole new army of men who see them as a business opportunity. I’m not saying that they’re all crooked, but I wouldn’t part with any money until I was sure. If they can find Uschi and bring back a message, then they’d be worth paying, but don’t start asking after false papers, not yet. I might be able to help with those.’
Buying a newspaper on his way home from work, Strohm noticed the short piece at the bottom of the front page. The Rummelsburg repair shop workers, after lengthy discussion with Party officials, had reconsidered their opposition to certain new procedures, and re-affirmed their determination to make their workplace a model of socialist enterprise.
At the same meeting time heartfelt tributes had been paid to Stefan Utermann, veteran of the Party’s underground resistance to the Nazis, survivor of Buchenwald and the former manager of the Rummelsburg railway repair shop, who had been killed in a tragic accident the previous evening. The authorities were still trying to piece together the circumstances, but Comrade Utermann had been knocked down and killed by a passing train.
It was still raining in Belgrade next morning, and Russell borrowed a hotel umbrella for the walk to the Foreign Press Liaison office. Comrade Popovic took his article away for ten minutes, and then brought it back with a smile. ‘Very informative,’ he said, without apparent irony. ‘But you realise you can’t send it from here?’
‘Of course not,’ Russell agreed. That would imply official approval.
‘Are you leaving today?’ Popovic asked.
‘No, tomorrow. I thought I’d have a day off, see the sights.’
Popovic looked surprised, and Russell could understand why-Belgrade wasn’t the most seductive of cities.
He splashed back to the hotel, and sat with a coffee staring out of the window. A puddle was spreading around a blocked drain; if the rain didn’t stop soon the square would turn into a lake.
It was now or never as far as Zoran Pograjac was concerned, and Russell knew he had to make the effort. Youklis might be a piece of shit, but he could make Russell’s life a misery. Appeasement was the smart way to go.