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Authors: David Downing
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had expected, but he soon discovered the reason – most of the fans were already inside. The crowd seemed thinner higher up, but as Paul pointed out, the further they were from the action the less they would probably see. Even close to the touchline the opposite grandstand was only a blur.
They squeezed in behind two school truants waving hammer and sickle flags, and sat themselves down on the damp concrete. There were still almost two hours until kick-off. Russell had initially hoped they would talk during the wait, but Paul had come armed with a book, and he was left alone with his newspapers.
The game in prospect got plenty of coverage, and a win was expected from Arsenal, particularly as several ‘guests’ – including Blackpool’s formidable Stanleys, Matthews and Mortensen – had been drafted in for the day. This was an England XI in everything but name, and national pride was clearly at stake.
Away from the back pages, nothing much caught his attention until an item in The Times almost took his breath away. He read the piece twice to be sure, then stared straight ahead for several seconds, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. Over the next six months, six and a half million Germans would be taken from their homes in the eastern regions of the old Reich, and forcibly relocated in the newly shrunken Germany. Six and half million! How were they going to be fed and sheltered? Or weren’t they? Stupid or callous, it beggared belief.
What sort of Germany were he and Effi going back to?
As he sat there, the local brass band began playing on the far side ofthe pitch. Drifting out of the fog, the tunes sounded even more mournful than usual.
At 1.45 the Dynamos emerged for their strange warm-up ritual. The conditions might be improving, Russell thought – the players on the far touchline were clearly visible, and the welcoming red flags on the West Stand roof occasionally fluttered into view. The Dynamos went back in, more minutes dragged by, before at last the two teams walked out together, the Russians surveying their surroundings with a breezy confidence, the Arsenal players looking grimly introspective.
The latter’s apprehension soon proved justified, the Russians scoring in the very first minute, and threatening another only seconds later. Soon the fog grew denser again, and the opposite stand faded from sight. The furthest players were vague apparitions at best, the linesman’s luminous flag an almost spectral presence. Stanley Matthews was playing on that side, and playing well if the roars from the opposite stand were anything to go by. But there seemed no end-product until the still-visible Dynamo keeper was suddenly seen diving in vain. 1-1.
The play surged from end to end, the action moving in and out of focus as the fog swirled across the pitch. Unlike the last match, the spirit seemed anything but friendly. Tackles were flying in from all directions, one savage lunge theatrically lit by the blaze of a magnesium flash bulb. Arsenal gradually got on top, and as half time approached they scored twice in as many minutes. There was an almost instant reply from the Russians, but Dynamo were still 3-2 down when the teams went in.
Intervals usually lasted five minutes, but this one had stretched to fifteen before the players re-emerged. The fog had thinned during the break, but now thickened with a vengeance, leaving Russell and his son with only the faintest view of Dynamo’s equaliser. They could see that the Arsenal players were livid, but had no idea why. Tempers frayed further, and a fist-fight erupted in the Dynamo penalty area. The referee seemed to send off an Arsenal player, but the man in question just ambled off into a dense patch of fog.
The fog thickened further, until only a quarter of the pitch was visible.Why the game had not been abandoned was anyone’s guess, but there was something highly satisfying about the whole business. It felt almost magical. Glancing sideways,
They squeezed in behind two school truants waving hammer and sickle flags, and sat themselves down on the damp concrete. There were still almost two hours until kick-off. Russell had initially hoped they would talk during the wait, but Paul had come armed with a book, and he was left alone with his newspapers.
The game in prospect got plenty of coverage, and a win was expected from Arsenal, particularly as several ‘guests’ – including Blackpool’s formidable Stanleys, Matthews and Mortensen – had been drafted in for the day. This was an England XI in everything but name, and national pride was clearly at stake.
Away from the back pages, nothing much caught his attention until an item in The Times almost took his breath away. He read the piece twice to be sure, then stared straight ahead for several seconds, stunned by the enormity of what had been decided. Over the next six months, six and a half million Germans would be taken from their homes in the eastern regions of the old Reich, and forcibly relocated in the newly shrunken Germany. Six and half million! How were they going to be fed and sheltered? Or weren’t they? Stupid or callous, it beggared belief.
What sort of Germany were he and Effi going back to?
As he sat there, the local brass band began playing on the far side ofthe pitch. Drifting out of the fog, the tunes sounded even more mournful than usual.
At 1.45 the Dynamos emerged for their strange warm-up ritual. The conditions might be improving, Russell thought – the players on the far touchline were clearly visible, and the welcoming red flags on the West Stand roof occasionally fluttered into view. The Dynamos went back in, more minutes dragged by, before at last the two teams walked out together, the Russians surveying their surroundings with a breezy confidence, the Arsenal players looking grimly introspective.
The latter’s apprehension soon proved justified, the Russians scoring in the very first minute, and threatening another only seconds later. Soon the fog grew denser again, and the opposite stand faded from sight. The furthest players were vague apparitions at best, the linesman’s luminous flag an almost spectral presence. Stanley Matthews was playing on that side, and playing well if the roars from the opposite stand were anything to go by. But there seemed no end-product until the still-visible Dynamo keeper was suddenly seen diving in vain. 1-1.
The play surged from end to end, the action moving in and out of focus as the fog swirled across the pitch. Unlike the last match, the spirit seemed anything but friendly. Tackles were flying in from all directions, one savage lunge theatrically lit by the blaze of a magnesium flash bulb. Arsenal gradually got on top, and as half time approached they scored twice in as many minutes. There was an almost instant reply from the Russians, but Dynamo were still 3-2 down when the teams went in.
Intervals usually lasted five minutes, but this one had stretched to fifteen before the players re-emerged. The fog had thinned during the break, but now thickened with a vengeance, leaving Russell and his son with only the faintest view of Dynamo’s equaliser. They could see that the Arsenal players were livid, but had no idea why. Tempers frayed further, and a fist-fight erupted in the Dynamo penalty area. The referee seemed to send off an Arsenal player, but the man in question just ambled off into a dense patch of fog.
The fog thickened further, until only a quarter of the pitch was visible.Why the game had not been abandoned was anyone’s guess, but there was something highly satisfying about the whole business. It felt almost magical. Glancing sideways,
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