He shovelled back the earth and tamped it down, first with the spade and then with his feet. The rain seemed to be easing.
After returning the front door key to its hiding place he went back inside.
‘You dug two metres already?’ Varennikov asked with a lamentable lack of trust.
‘At least,’ Russell lied. ‘The soil is soft here,’ he added for good measure. ‘Let’s go.’
Dawn would be around six, which gave them three hours to cover the ten kilometres. This had seemed like plenty of time, but, as soon became clear, it was not. For one thing, Russell was uncertain of the route – he had driven in from Dahlem on enough occasions in the past, but only along those main thoroughfares which he now wished to avoid. For another, visibility was atrocious. The rain had stopped, but clouds still covered the heavens, leaving reflected fires and explosions as the only real sources of light. It took them more than ninety minutes to reach the inner circle of the Ringbahn, which was less than halfway to their destination.
They saw few signs of life – the occasional glimmer of light seeping out of a basement, a cigarette glowing in the window of a gouged-out house, the sound of a couple making vigorous love in a darkened doorway. Once, two figures crept furtively past on the other side of the street, like a mirror image of themselves. They were in uniform, but didn’t appear to be carrying guns. Deserters most likely, and who could blame them?
As Russell and Varennikov entered Wilmersdorf, the sky began to break up, and patches of starlight emerged between fast-moving clouds. This offered easier movement, but only at the price of enhanced visibility. They narrowly avoided two uniformed patrols by the fortunate expedient of seeing them first – in each case a flaring match betrayed the approaching authorities, giving them time to slip into the shadows. As dawn approached an increasing numbers of military lorries, troop carriers and mounted guns could be seen and heard on the main roads. Everyone, it seemed, was hurrying to get under cover.
Once in Schöneberg, Russell felt surer of directions. He followed a street running parallel to the wide Grunewald Strasse, on which he and Ilse had lived almost twenty years earlier, and passed what was left of the huge Schöneberg tram depot, before turning up towards Heinrich von Kleist Park, where Paul had taken his faltering first steps. The park was in use as some sort of military assembly area, but a short detour brought them to Potsdamer Strasse a few hundred metres south of where Russell had intended. At the end of a facing side street the elevated tracks leading north towards Potsdam Station were silhouetted against the rapidly lightening sky.
The sprawling goods complex was a few hundred metres up the line. Russell had visited the street-level offices once before, accompanying Thomas in search of some printing machinery supposedly en route from the Ruhr. On that day the areas beside and under the tracks had been choked with lorries, but the only vehicles in sight on this particular morning were bomb victims. One lorry had lost the front part of its chassis, and seemed to be kneeling in prayer.
Russell found it hard to believe that anyone would still be working in the goods station – what, after all, could still be coming in or out of Berlin? And it was only six-fifteen in the morning. But he followed the signs to the dispatch office, Varennikov meekly in tow. And lo and behold, there was a Reichsbahn official in neat uniform, two candles illuminating the ledger over which his pencil was poised. After their long night walk across the broken city, the normality seemed almost surreal.
The official looked up as they entered, surprise on his face. Customers of any kind had doubtless become rare, let alone men in foreign worker uniforms. ‘Yes?’ he asked, with a mixture of nervousness and truculence.
‘We’ve been sent by the Air Ministry,’ Russell began. ‘Our boss was told last week that a shipment of paintings had arrived from Königsberg, but he hasn’t received them. If you could check that they’re here, a vehicle can be sent to collect them. I was told to say that our boss has already spoken to Diehls.’
Comprehension dawned on the official’s face, causing Russell to breathe a sigh of relief. ‘We were told to expect you,’ the man continued, in a tone that suggested they hadn’t believed it. He came out from behind his desk and shook their hands. ‘Please, come with me.’
He took a flashlight from his desk, led them out through the back of the building and up a steep iron stairway to rail level. The rising sun had barely cleared the distant rooftops, but the smoke from explosions and fires had already turned it into a dull red ball. As they walked by a line of gutted carriages a shell landed a few hundred metres further down the viaduct, but their guide showed no reaction, ducking under a coupling and crossing a series of tracks to enter a huge and now roofless depot. Inside, the loading platforms were lined with what had once been wagons, and now looked more like firewood. Another shell exploded, closer this time, and Russell was glad to take another staircase down, their guide using his flashlight to illuminate the abandoned office complex beneath the tracks. More stairs and they were actually underground, which had to be an improvement. A corridor led past a row of offices still in apparent use, though none had human occupants. Two more turnings and they reached a half open door, which their guide put his head around. ‘The men for the Königsberg paintings,’ Russell heard him say.
There was the sound of a chair scraping back, and the door opened wide. ‘Come in, come in,’ their new host said, suppressed excitement in his voice. He was also wearing a Reichsbahn uniform, but was much younger than their guide. No more than thirty-five, Russell guessed.
‘I am Stefan Leissner,’ he said, offering his hand.
‘This is Ilya Varennikov,’ Russell said. ‘He doesn’t speak much German.’ He introduced himself. ‘We had two companions, but they were both killed.’
‘How?’ Leissner asked. He looked shocked, as if the notion that Soviet officials were mortal had not occurred to him.
‘In an air raid. They were unlucky.’
‘I am very sorry to hear that. But it is good to see you, comrades. I hope your mission has proved successful.’
‘I think so,’ Russell told him. He had no idea whether Leissner knew what their mission had been, and decided that he probably didn’t – the NKVD were not known for their chattiness. ‘And you are able to hide us until the Red Army arrives?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Leissner looked at his watch. ‘And I should take you to… your quarters, I suppose. I doubt whether many will come to work today, and those that do will mostly be comrades, but there is no point in taking risks. Come.’
Their original guide had been outside, presumably keeping watch. Dis-missed, he walked back down the corridor, his flashlight beam dancing in front of him, while Leissner turned the other way, and quickly brought them to the top of a spiral staircase. ‘You go down first,’ he said, shining his torch to show them the way. When they all reached the bottom, the flashlight revealed two pairs of still-shining tracks – they were in a small lobby adjoining a railway tunnel.
‘This is the S-Bahn line that runs under Potsdam Station and north towards Friedrichstrasse,’ Leissner explained, stepping down onto the sleepers. ‘There are no services on this line anymore, just a few hospital trains stabled beneath Budapester Strasse.’ He set off alongside the tracks, assuring them over his shoulder that the electricity was off. The tunnel soon widened, platforms appearing on either side. They climbed up, and turned in through a corridor opening. Tiny feet scurried away from the questing flashlight beam, awakening memories of the trenches which Russell would rather forget. Much to his relief, they went up another spiral staircase, emerging into a wide hall with a high ceiling. The old skylights had been covered over, but light still glinted round the edges.