Milankovic seemed almost disappointed. ‘Comrades you’ll now betray in hope of saving your skin.’
Russell shook his head. ‘They’re no comrades of mine, and I informed your authorities about them before I was arrested.’
‘Who? How?’
He explained about the four Krizari and their terrorist plans. ‘I saw the false papers which a Catholic priest in Trieste had prepared for them, on instructions from American intelligence. The letter I sent to your central bureau contains the names on those papers. Which should make them easy to pick up.’
Now Milankovic looked bemused. ‘Why didn’t you just report this to the police?’
‘I’m a journalist, as I keep telling you. I’m supposed to report events, not manipulate them.’
‘So why have you? Why would you put the interests of Yugoslavia above those of your own country?
Russell smiled. ‘The interests of American intelligence and the interests of America aren’t the same thing. And no, I don’t have any special affection for Yugoslavia, but I have every reason to loathe the Ustashe. Who doesn’t? And I feel ashamed of my government for using such people.’ He sounded like he believed it, which was probably because he did.
Milankovic was only half convinced. ‘So where did you post this letter?’
‘In the central post office. A girl named Adrijana sold me the stamp, and I expect she’ll remember me.’
‘We will talk to her, and wait for the morning delivery. In the meantime, you will have to sleep here. I’m sure a meal can be arranged.’
The food was awful, the cot in his cell as soft as a plank, and if the noises off were any guide his fellow detainees were suffering much more than he was. But he managed a few hours of dream-filled sleep, and felt only slightly less than human when business was resumed.
The letter had apparently arrived, and the UDBA was duly grateful. As for his arrest, well, Mister Russell would surely appreciate that sometimes wrong conclusions were drawn, and that he himself perhaps bore some responsibility for those reached on this occasion.
Russell wasn’t about to argue. The way he saw it, they were bound still to be suspicious. He had offered innocent explanations for the missing minutes with Nedic and his visit to Pograjac, and he could doubtless conjure up another for casting off his shadow. But he couldn’t disprove their alternative explanations, and with people like these you were guilty until proven innocent. Everything else being equal, he could see himself back in a cell.
But of course it wasn’t. He had given them four of the hated Krizari, they were keen to see his article published, and he could tell from Milankovic’s face that he was about to be released.
Russell risked a question: ‘What has happened to Zoran Pograjac?’
He had just been tried, and found guilty of conspiracy against the state.
‘Goli Otok for him, then.’
‘He wasn’t that lucky.’
They met up at Anhalter Station, and joined the waiting crowd on the open platform-the bombed-out roof had still not been replaced. Strohm’s bag contained the rest of the past payok parcel, Effi’s a bottle of wine which Zarah had passed on from Bill. She had invited them and Lothar, but they were going to a US Army baseball game out in Dahlem. Rosa was carrying her drawing pad and pencils in a satchel over her shoulder, and worrying that the train might be full.
‘It’s coming from the depot,’ Strohm assured her. ‘It’ll be empty.’
It was, but didn’t take long to fill up. One pregnant woman was left standing, and Effi was about to offer her seat when a Red Army soldier beat her to it, all concern and joviality. This, no doubt unreasonably, made her feel less anxious about taking a trip out into the Soviet zone. None of the people she’d asked had thought there was reason to worry, but there was still a vague sense of placing one’s head between the jaws of a playful lion. But at least with Strohm there, too, they had some good insurance.
The train set off, inching out along the viaduct and through the still-neglected yards. As it slowly gathered a modicum of speed, the gapped streets grew increasingly whole, until, in the farthest suburbs, the legacies of war became almost invisible. And once they were out in open country, it felt like another planet entirely; one where grey was unknown, and the greens of spring shone with a shocking intensity.
It took almost an hour and a half to reach Werder. They emerged from the station into what Effi imagined was Moscow writ small-the square was festooned with posters announcing the Soviet Union’s abolition of poverty, unemployment, racism, and everything else that blighted the unfortunate West. A montage of heroes adorned the building opposite the station, and away to the left a group of boys were playing football underneath a giant portrait of Zhukov. All the shops lining one side had been abandoned, although one now housed the local headquarters of the SED, the Socialist Unity Party. Staffed by people like Strohm, Effi thought, as they walked past it. A lot of people she knew hated and feared the SED, but a party full of Strohms seemed nothing to be afraid of. Were they misjudging the Party, or did she not know the man?
She looked at Strohm, who was talking to Rosa. The girl really liked him, which was a good sign. And he seemed happier than usual today.
It didn’t take them long to get out of the town, and on to a narrow road that wound between meadows studded with poppies and burrowed through occasional stands of pine, the wide expanse of the Havel glinting not far to the north. The breeze was full of beautiful fragrances, the sky above almost swarming with birds. Everything seemed so alive.
Or almost everything. They passed a Soviet cemetery, red stars on every grave. They had their reasons, Effi thought. And after April’s panic they were seeming more reasonable again.
After eating lunch beneath a gnarled tree on the shore of the Havel, Rosa took out her drawing pad, and sat looking across the lake for quite a while before putting pencil to paper. She wasn’t used to distances, Effi realised. It crossed her mind that if the Russians laid siege to Berlin’s Western sectors, as many feared they would, then she and Rosa could say farewell to days like this.
A gloomy thought. Strohm was down on the beach, skimming flat stones across the water. ‘He looks happy,’ Effi thought out loud.
‘He’s going to be a father,’ Annaliese said matter-of-factly.
Effi spun around, let out a cry of joy, and threw her arms around her friend’s neck. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful!’
‘Isn’t it?’
She had never seen Annaliese cry before, which considering all they’d been through together, was something of a miracle. ‘And you’re both really happy about it?’ Effi asked, just to be sure.
‘Oh yes. The only hard bit was telling Gerd’s parents, because I knew they’d be thinking that my child should have been their grandchild, and it would only remind them that Gerd was dead. But they were wonderful. They said how pleased they were for me, and I’m sure they meant it.’ Annaliese smiled. ‘So I asked them to be godparents, and that made us all cry.’ She looked across at the future father. ‘I haven’t told Gerhard about that bit yet.’
‘I don’t suppose he believes in God.’
‘No, but then neither do I.’ Annaliese looked up the branches rustling in the breeze. ‘But sometimes I just believe in … I don’t know, in all this life. Inside and out. What else is there?’
Sasa
Effi had run into Max Grelling a couple of months earlier, when she and Russell had stopped off at the Honey Trap on Ku’damm for a post-theatre drink. In a beautifully-cut American suit, and with a gorgeous young German blonde on one arm, Grelling had looked the picture of post-war prosperity. Which was hardly surprising. Any member of that shrinking band of Jews still resident in Berlin was entitled to a welter of well-deserved privileges, and a celebrity like Max was entitled to more than most.