Would she ever have a child? She had been asking herself that question with increasing frequency since her forced separation from John. Which was somewhat ironic – when they’d been together the subject had rarely been raised. They’d had each other, and he’d had Paul, and she’d had her career and her nephew. They’d never ruled out having a child with each other, but there had been a tacit acceptance that they wouldn’t, or at least not yet.
Well, if she had another birthday in May, it would be her thirty-ninth. Which might well be too late, although miracles happened. And then there was Rosa, or whatever her real name was. Effi had only known the girl for ten days, but already found life without her hard to imagine. And there was no one to send her back to. She wondered how John would feel about adopting a daughter. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt fairly confident that he’d like the idea. And Paul, if he lived, could be the grown-up brother.
The thought brought tears to her eyes. She lay there in the dark, the sleeping girl enfolded in her arms, trying not to sob.
The makeshift defence line on the eastern outskirts of Müncheberg was still in German hands when Paul’s adopted combat group reached it just before dawn. This was almost a pleasant surprise, given how over the course of the night the Russians had often seemed ahead of them.
Around fifty of them had slipped out of Worin and across the open fields when darkness fell on the previous day. Once assembled in the next patch of forest, they had struck out for Müncheberg, some ten kilometres to the west. It had been a long and twisting journey, in which the sights or sounds of fighting nearby had often dictated a change of course. Stopping to rest while the moon was up, they had watched in petrified silence as one line of enemy lorries had passed a mere stone’s throw away, the soldiers within filling the night with their songs of triumph. Only a kilometre or two from Müncheberg they had found themselves forced between two burning villages, not knowing which side was setting the fires.
And Müncheberg itself, it transpired, was soon to be parted from the Reich. According to the latest reports the Russians had broken through to both north and south, leaving most of Ninth Army in peril of encirclement. All troops were being pulled back to the Berlin defence lines, either with their own units or as members of combat groups newly formed by the military police who controlled the crossroads outside the town. Paul, to his intense annoyance, was told to join up with a new unit built around the remnants of a Hitlerjugend battle group. When he protested this decision, arguing that his gunnery skills would be utterly wasted in an infantry unit, he was treated to a lecture on the bravery and commitment of the Hitlerjugend, who could ‘give the fucking army a lesson in how to stand and fight.’
They probably could, but only because they were too young to know any better. Most of his new comrades seemed to be fifteen or sixteen, and Paul doubted whether their life expectancy warranted shaving kits. Scanning the smoke-blackened child faces lining the road he felt a further lurch towards total despair. Some seemed utterly blank, others close to feral. Some were on the verge of tears, and probably had been for weeks. Understandable reactions, each and every one.
The good news, from Paul’s point of view, was that the Hitlerjugend’s suicidal devotion to the Führer had earned them transport – their unit, unlike others, had been allotted trucks and fuel enough to reach Erkner. He climbed aboard his vehicle with relief, and tried not to notice the age of the other passengers. Get to Erkner, he told himself, and a chance would occur to seek out his old battalion, most of whose members still considered personal survival a more than worthwhile goal.
The lorry moved off, and he closed his eyes for some much-needed sleep.
‘I’m Werner Redlich,’ a small voice interrupted him. ‘I heard you tell the MP you’re a gunner.’
‘Yes,’ Paul said without opening his eyes.
‘I wanted to be a gunner,’ the boy persisted.
Paul looked at him. He had noticed him at the crossroads – a sad and far too thoughtful face for one so young. Like most of the others, he was wearing a brown shirt, short trousers and an oversize helmet. ‘How old are you?’ he asked.
‘Fifteen,’ Werner replied, as if were the most natural age for a soldier to be. ‘Nearly fifteen,’ he corrected himself. ‘Are your family in Berlin?’
‘No,’ Paul said, shutting his eyes again, ‘they’re all dead. And I need some sleep.’
‘Okay,’ Werner said. ‘We can talk later.’
Paul smiled to himself, something he hadn’t done for a while. He spent the next couple of hours drifting in and out of sleep, the lorry jerking him half-awake each time it accelerated away from road blockages caused by refugees, retreating soldiers or the earlier depredations of the Red Air Force. When he fully came to, the back of the lorry was empty, and Werner was offering him a can of food and a mug of coffee. ‘Where are we?’ he asked, looking out over Werner’s head. ‘And where is everyone?’
‘Stretching their legs. We’re in Herzfelde.’
The sky above the houses was purest blue, and the war seemed, at that instant, a long way away. He levered the tin open, and began spooning its contents into his mouth. ‘Why have we stopped here?’ he asked between mouthfuls.
Werner was looking down the road. ‘We’re wanted,’ he told Paul.
‘Who by?’
‘SS.’
‘Then we’d better go.’ Paul took one last mouthful of soup, and lowered himself down to the road. Fifty metres away, the unit was coalescing around a couple of black uniforms. A Führer Order, he guessed, as they walked forward to join the throng.
He was right. The SS Sturmbannführer leaning on the windshield of his APC had paper in hand, and after gesturing successfully for everyone’s attention, began reading the latest bulletin: ‘Hold on another twenty-four hours, and the great change in the war will come! Reinforcements are rolling forward. Wonder weapons are coming. Guns and tanks are being unloaded in their thousands.’
Paul looked around, expecting at least the odd smirk, but every young face seemed enraptured. They wanted so hard to believe.
‘The guns are silent on the West Front,’ the Sturmbannführer continued. ‘The Western Army is marching to the support of you brave East Front warriors. Thousands of British and Americans are volunteering to join our ranks to drive out the Bolsheviks. Hold on another twenty-four hours, comrades. Churchill,’ the Sturmbannführer concluded with the air of a magician saving his biggest rabbit for last, ‘is in Berlin negotiating with me.’
Now there were smiles on the young faces. They were going to win after all.
Paul reminded himself that it wasn’t so long since he had taken official pronouncements seriously. Even now, a small part of his brain was wondering whether the British leader might really be in Berlin.
‘Do you believe it?’ Werner asked quietly, as they walked back towards their vehicle.
‘Of course,’ Paul said in a tone that implied the opposite.
‘Neither do I,’ the boy said, removing his helmet to run a finger along a still-healing gash in his forehead.
‘Where are your family?’ Paul asked him.
‘In Berlin. In Schöneberg. My father was killed in Italy, but my mother and sister are still there. At least I think they are. I’ve heard nothing since we were sent to the front.’ He raised his eyes to meet Paul’s. ‘I promised my father I’d look after them.’
‘Sometimes there’s no choice and you have to break a promise. Your father would understand that.’
‘I know,’ Werner said, sounding more like fifty than fifteen. ‘But…’ He let the word hang in the air.