Read Online Potsdam Station by David Downing - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David Downing
Ads: Link
know why. One risk too many, perhaps.
‘There’s no one else,’ Aslund said softly.
‘Of course we’ll take her,’ Effi said, looking at Ali. How could they refuse?
Ali looked concerned. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said. ‘I told Fritz that I’d move in with him until it’s all over. There’ll be more room, but I won’t be around much to help.’
‘That’s all right,’ Effi told her. She felt upset that Ali was going, but hardly surprised. ‘I can manage the girl on my own,’ she told Aslund.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Aslund said, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Someone will bring her here tomorrow. After the day raid, if there is one.’
‘They haven’t missed a day for weeks.’
‘True. But it can’t last much longer. Once the Russians are in the city, the Western allies will have to stop their bombing.’
‘And how long before the Russians are here?’ Effi asked him.
Aslund shrugged. ‘A few weeks. No more than that. And maybe less.’
Russell was woken by the early morning sunlight, and found it impossible to go back to sleep. With two hours to wait until the restaurant opened, he enjoyed a long soak in the oversize bath and then sat by the window with his Russian dictionary, checking through words he might need to use. When the Cyrillic letters began to blur he put the book down, and stared out at the square. A group of four women cleaners were gathered beside the statue of Marx, leaning on their brooms like a coven of witches. Marx hadn’t noticed them, of course – he was staring straight ahead, absorbed in saving humanity.
He ate breakfast alone surrounded by yawning waiters, and then went for a walk, cutting round the back of the Lenin Museum and into Red Square. On the far side, a couple of people were crossing in front of St Basil’s, but otherwise the vast expanse was free of movement. There were no guards outside Lenin’s tomb, a sure sign that the mummified corpse had not yet returned from its wartime vacation in distant Kuybyshev.
Russell ambled across the cobbles, wondering what to do. Would the Soviets actually communicate a refusal, or just leave him dangling for days? Probably the latter, he thought. He needed to push for an answer – it wouldn’t hurt and it might even help. The Soviet Union was one of those strange places – like Oxford or the Church – where money didn’t talk very loudly, and where making yourself heard called for a certain directness. Like shouting, or banging one’s fist on a table.
If the British introduced a National Health Service he could almost guarantee that those who shouted loudest would get the best treatment. Which would still be better than rationing according to income.
His mind was rambling. What if the shouting failed to shift them? What should he do then – travel back to the West? Once the Red Army took Berlin, the Americans, British and French would insist on their own people going in to administer the agreed zones, and he, as a Western journalist, should have no trouble going with them. But who knew how long it would be before the Red Army declared the city safe, and allowed their Allies in? Weeks probably, maybe even months.
Was there nothing more he could offer the Soviets? He couldn’t think of anything. He needed a friend, a sponsor.
Shchepkin, he thought, without much hope. But there was no one else.
Yevgeny Shchepkin was the closest thing he had to a friend in Moscow. When Russell had refused the Russians’ invitation to the Soviet Union at the end of 1941, he had gained the impression that Shchepkin had actually been pleased, as if he knew that his bosses meant Russell no good, and was pleased that their plans had come to nought. That might have been wishful thinking – it was hard to know. When they had first met in 1924, both had been enthusiastic communists. At their meetings in 1939, Shchepkin had still seemed committed, but on a much
‘There’s no one else,’ Aslund said softly.
‘Of course we’ll take her,’ Effi said, looking at Ali. How could they refuse?
Ali looked concerned. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,’ she said. ‘I told Fritz that I’d move in with him until it’s all over. There’ll be more room, but I won’t be around much to help.’
‘That’s all right,’ Effi told her. She felt upset that Ali was going, but hardly surprised. ‘I can manage the girl on my own,’ she told Aslund.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Aslund said, as if a huge weight had just been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Someone will bring her here tomorrow. After the day raid, if there is one.’
‘They haven’t missed a day for weeks.’
‘True. But it can’t last much longer. Once the Russians are in the city, the Western allies will have to stop their bombing.’
‘And how long before the Russians are here?’ Effi asked him.
Aslund shrugged. ‘A few weeks. No more than that. And maybe less.’
Russell was woken by the early morning sunlight, and found it impossible to go back to sleep. With two hours to wait until the restaurant opened, he enjoyed a long soak in the oversize bath and then sat by the window with his Russian dictionary, checking through words he might need to use. When the Cyrillic letters began to blur he put the book down, and stared out at the square. A group of four women cleaners were gathered beside the statue of Marx, leaning on their brooms like a coven of witches. Marx hadn’t noticed them, of course – he was staring straight ahead, absorbed in saving humanity.
He ate breakfast alone surrounded by yawning waiters, and then went for a walk, cutting round the back of the Lenin Museum and into Red Square. On the far side, a couple of people were crossing in front of St Basil’s, but otherwise the vast expanse was free of movement. There were no guards outside Lenin’s tomb, a sure sign that the mummified corpse had not yet returned from its wartime vacation in distant Kuybyshev.
Russell ambled across the cobbles, wondering what to do. Would the Soviets actually communicate a refusal, or just leave him dangling for days? Probably the latter, he thought. He needed to push for an answer – it wouldn’t hurt and it might even help. The Soviet Union was one of those strange places – like Oxford or the Church – where money didn’t talk very loudly, and where making yourself heard called for a certain directness. Like shouting, or banging one’s fist on a table.
If the British introduced a National Health Service he could almost guarantee that those who shouted loudest would get the best treatment. Which would still be better than rationing according to income.
His mind was rambling. What if the shouting failed to shift them? What should he do then – travel back to the West? Once the Red Army took Berlin, the Americans, British and French would insist on their own people going in to administer the agreed zones, and he, as a Western journalist, should have no trouble going with them. But who knew how long it would be before the Red Army declared the city safe, and allowed their Allies in? Weeks probably, maybe even months.
Was there nothing more he could offer the Soviets? He couldn’t think of anything. He needed a friend, a sponsor.
Shchepkin, he thought, without much hope. But there was no one else.
Yevgeny Shchepkin was the closest thing he had to a friend in Moscow. When Russell had refused the Russians’ invitation to the Soviet Union at the end of 1941, he had gained the impression that Shchepkin had actually been pleased, as if he knew that his bosses meant Russell no good, and was pleased that their plans had come to nought. That might have been wishful thinking – it was hard to know. When they had first met in 1924, both had been enthusiastic communists. At their meetings in 1939, Shchepkin had still seemed committed, but on a much
Similar Books
