‘That’s a good question. I don’t know.’
Thomas nodded, as if that was the answer he’d expected. ‘We may never see each other again – who knows? – so will you listen to what I wanted to tell you that day?’
‘All right.’
‘Your father abandoned you – there’s no denying it. But he had to. If he’d stayed, you’d have had a dead father instead of a missing one.’
‘That might have been easier,’ Paul said without thinking.
Thomas took it in his stride. ‘Yes, for you it might have been. No one would deny that it was hard on you.’
‘On all of us,’ Paul said.
‘Yes, but particularly on you. And then you lost your mother. But Paul, it’s time you stopped feeling sorry for yourself. You had a father and a mother who loved you – a father, I’ll warrant, who still does – and that’s more than a lot of people get in this world. Your father didn’t abandon you because he didn’t care about you; he didn’t leave you because of who he was or who you were. It was the war that divided you; it was politics, circumstance, all that stuff that makes us do the things we do. It had nothing to do with the heart or the soul.’
In the back of Paul’s mind a child’s voice was still intoning ‘but he left me’. ‘I do still love him,’ he said out loud, suddenly aware that he was fighting back tears.
‘Of course you do,’ Thomas said simply. ‘Shit, I think I’m wanted,’ he added, looking over Paul’s shoulder. His Volkssturm company seemed to be gathering at the end of the bridge. ‘There’s always another hole to dig,’ he remarked in the old familiar tone as he got rather slowly to his feet. ‘It’s been wonderful seeing you,’ he told Paul.
‘And you,’ Paul said, throwing his arms around his uncle. ‘And you take care of yourself.’
‘I’ll do my best,’ Thomas said, disentangling himself. There was a hint of moisture in his eyes too. ‘Don’t worry, I have no intention of throwing my life away in a lost cause, particularly this one. I’ve got Hanna and Lotte to think about. I shall surrender the first chance I get.’
‘Choose your moment. And your Russian, if you can.’
Thomas gave him an approving look. ‘I shall remember that,’ he said. He smiled once more, then turned, one hand briefly raised in farewell, and walked away down the promenade.
After almost twelve hours in the shelter Effi was beginning to wonder whether she’d exaggerated the dangers of the outside world. Perhaps the shelling stopped at night, or at least grew less intense. Perhaps they could try to get home in the hour before dawn.
Or perhaps she was being foolish: hunger and lack of sleep were unlikely to be improving her judgement. But how could they survive here, without even water?
‘Effi?’ a voice asked, sounding both surprised and pleased.
Startled, she raised her eyes to a familiar face. ‘Call me Dagmar,’ she whispered. The woman might denounce her, but there seemed no reason she should do so by accident. Effi had met Annaliese Huiskes almost four years ago. She had been a staff nurse at the Elisabeth Hospital, and Effi had been one of the film stars who had volunteered to visit the hospital’s swelling population of wounded soldiers. Over the weeks of their acquaintance the two women had discovered a shared taste for hospital-flavoured pure alcohol and a shared disgust for the war.
‘Dagmar?’ Annaliese said, amusement in her voice. ‘Is it really you, Dagmar?’
Effi smiled back. ‘It is.’ It was, she realised, an enormous relief to be who she really was.
‘How did you end up here?’ Annaliese asked, squeezing herself into the niche as a stretcher party went past. There was just enough space for her to sit down.
‘A long story,’ Effi told her. ‘But we were just outside when the shelling started. This is Rosa, by the way,’ she added, as the sleeping girl shifted her body.
‘Your daughter?’
‘No. Just someone I’m looking after. She’s an orphan.’ Annaliese looked much the same as she had four years earlier – small, blonde and worn-out. But there was something heartening about her, something that hadn’t been there in 1941. She was wearing a wedding ring, Effi noticed.
‘I hope you’re going to stay here,’ Annaliese said.
‘I don’t know. We were on our way home, and this place… If we leave before dawn…’
‘Don’t. The shelling hasn’t stopped since it got dark. And it’s not like the bombing, where you get some warning. You’d just be gambling with your lives. And even if you get home… Effi – sorry, Dagmar – you have to think about the Russians now. Have you heard the stories? Well, they’re all true. We’ve had hundreds of women who’ve been raped, and not just raped – they’ve been attacked by so many men, and so violently, that many are beyond help. They’re just bleeding to death. So stay, see the war out here. It can’t be many days now. The Russians are in Weissensee already.’
‘I understand what you’re telling me…’
‘Have you ever done any nursing?’ Annaliese interjected.
‘Only in movies.’
‘Well, how you would like to learn? We’re ridiculously short-handed, and what you see makes you want to weep, but there’s food and water and we do some good.’
‘What about Rosa?’
‘She can come too. I forgot to say – you’ll also get somewhere to sleep. You’ll have to share, but it’ll be better than this.’
‘Sounds wonderful,’ Effi said.
‘Okay,’ Annaliese said, levering herself back to her feet, ‘I’ll tell them you’re an old friend, and willing to help. I’ll be back soon.’
She disappeared up the corridor, leaving Effi wondering about Zarah. If her sister was still out in Schmargendorf, then the Russians would probably get to her before she could. And if Zarah was in a government bunker with Jens, there was no way that Effi could find her. There was nothing more she could do.
Annaliese was true to her word, returning a few minutes later. Effi woke Rosa and introduced her friend, who led them through rooms full of wounded men, and down some stairs to a small room with bare brick walls and two pairs of bunk beds. A single candle was burning in the middle of the floor.
‘That bottom one’s yours,’ Annaliese told here. ‘You start in the morning with me. Now I’ll get you a little water.’
Rosa sat down on the bed and smiled up at Effi. The smell of shit was weaker here, the smell of blood much stronger. An appropriate spot to see out a war.
Corpse brides
April 22 – 23
Russell could only find one spade in the pitch-black shed, so he sent the Russian back inside, fought his way through the brambles to where he thought Hanna’s vegetable patch had been, and began digging. There was little chance of his being heard – the rain and wind would see to that. Not to mention the occasional slam of an exploding shell. It was a night for burying oneself, not atomic secrets.
Varennikov had insisted on a depth of two metres, in case a shell landed on top of his precious papers. Russell decided on a third of that – if the choice was between him getting pneumonia and the Soviets an atomic bomb, he knew damn well which he preferred.
At least it wasn’t cold. He dug on, careful to pile the excavated earth alongside the hole. Once he’d gone down a couple of feet – he supposed he still measured digging in English units because of his experience in the trenches – he pulled the papers out from inside Thomas’ raincoat and placed them at the bottom of the hole. Varennikov had wrapped them in a piece of oilskin that he’d found in the larder, which should protect them from damp for a couple of weeks.
After a moment’s hesitation, he added Gusakovsky’s machine pistol to the hoard – a weapon for emergencies was all well and good, but being caught with it would see them both shot as spies.