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Authors: David Downing
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more pragmatic level, and by 1941 Russell had gained the distinct impression that his old comrade was just going through the motions.
Shchepkin might speak in his favour, he thought. Always assuming he could – the average life expectancy of Stalin’s international reps had taken something of a dip in recent years.
But how could he find him? There were no private numbers in the Moscow telephone directory.
He could just go straight to the NKVD. Put them at their ease by sticking his head between their jaws. Say Shchepkin was an old friend whom he wanted to look up while he was in Moscow. Witter on about internationalism and other mad ideas from Lenin’s day. What did he have to lose? They could only say no.
The young woman who brought the child seemed cold and brusque to Effi, as if she was passing on a parcel rather than another living soul. ‘This is Rosa,’ was all she said, handing over the false papers and a small and very battered suitcase. She was clearly disinclined to linger, and Effi did nothing to detain her. The child could answer any questions about herself.
Rosa seemed small for her age, with large hazel eyes, a small straight nose and soft lips. In better times, she would have been pretty, Effi thought, but hunger and grief had taken a toll. The curly fair hair was short and roughly shorn, adding to the waif-like impression. More to the point perhaps, there was nothing in the girl’s features or colouring to suggest her Jewish heritage.
‘I’m Erna,’ Effi said. ‘Erna von Freiwald. And this is Mathilde,’ she added, introducing Ali. ‘She’s moving out in couple of days, but she’ll still come to see us.’
Rosa solemnly shook hands with both of them. ‘Rosa is not my real name,’ she said. ‘But I can’t tell you my real name until the war is over.’
‘That’s good,’ Effi said. ‘Erma and Mathilde aren’t our real names either. When the war’s over we can all tell each other.’
The girl nodded. ‘Are you my mother now?’ she asked Effi, with a discernible hint of challenge.
‘We’re both going to be your friends,’ Effi offered, uncertain of what to say. ‘And we’ll try and look after you the way your mother would have wanted.’
‘For ever?’ the girl asked.
‘I don’t know. Until the war is over, at least. I’m sorry, but no one has told us about your family – what happened to your father?’
‘I don’t know. Mother told me he might be alive, and we must hope, but I don’t think she believed it.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I don’t remember. I was very small. He just went away one day.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I don’t think so. Is there any food, please? I’m very hungry.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, I forgot. I made some soup this morning for when you arrived.’
There was no gas to heat it, but Rosa gulped it down. After she’d finished, Effi showed her round the apartment. ‘You’ll sleep with me,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s all right.’
‘I think so,’ Rosa agreed. ‘I go to bed at eight o’clock.’
‘Where you were before,’ Effi asked, ‘did you go down to the shelter for the air raids?’
‘Not when my mother was alive. We had to stay in the shed where we lived. We used to get under the bed, but mother went out to get something.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears, which she angrily wiped away. ‘Frau Borchers took me down after that. She said I was her niece from Dresden, and that my mother and father had been killed.’
‘That’s a good story,’ Effi agreed. ‘We shall say the same here.’
Later that evening, as the British thundered overhead, she told the same story to Frau Esser. The block warden wrote down the fictional details, which someone somewhere would doubtless try to verify. Most such stories, as many U-boats had found to their cost, could eventually be checked, but surely the time was now too short. With any luck at all, the Gestapo would be much too busy
Shchepkin might speak in his favour, he thought. Always assuming he could – the average life expectancy of Stalin’s international reps had taken something of a dip in recent years.
But how could he find him? There were no private numbers in the Moscow telephone directory.
He could just go straight to the NKVD. Put them at their ease by sticking his head between their jaws. Say Shchepkin was an old friend whom he wanted to look up while he was in Moscow. Witter on about internationalism and other mad ideas from Lenin’s day. What did he have to lose? They could only say no.
The young woman who brought the child seemed cold and brusque to Effi, as if she was passing on a parcel rather than another living soul. ‘This is Rosa,’ was all she said, handing over the false papers and a small and very battered suitcase. She was clearly disinclined to linger, and Effi did nothing to detain her. The child could answer any questions about herself.
Rosa seemed small for her age, with large hazel eyes, a small straight nose and soft lips. In better times, she would have been pretty, Effi thought, but hunger and grief had taken a toll. The curly fair hair was short and roughly shorn, adding to the waif-like impression. More to the point perhaps, there was nothing in the girl’s features or colouring to suggest her Jewish heritage.
‘I’m Erna,’ Effi said. ‘Erna von Freiwald. And this is Mathilde,’ she added, introducing Ali. ‘She’s moving out in couple of days, but she’ll still come to see us.’
Rosa solemnly shook hands with both of them. ‘Rosa is not my real name,’ she said. ‘But I can’t tell you my real name until the war is over.’
‘That’s good,’ Effi said. ‘Erma and Mathilde aren’t our real names either. When the war’s over we can all tell each other.’
The girl nodded. ‘Are you my mother now?’ she asked Effi, with a discernible hint of challenge.
‘We’re both going to be your friends,’ Effi offered, uncertain of what to say. ‘And we’ll try and look after you the way your mother would have wanted.’
‘For ever?’ the girl asked.
‘I don’t know. Until the war is over, at least. I’m sorry, but no one has told us about your family – what happened to your father?’
‘I don’t know. Mother told me he might be alive, and we must hope, but I don’t think she believed it.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘I don’t remember. I was very small. He just went away one day.’
‘Do you have any brothers or sisters?’
‘I don’t think so. Is there any food, please? I’m very hungry.’
‘Of course. I’m sorry, I forgot. I made some soup this morning for when you arrived.’
There was no gas to heat it, but Rosa gulped it down. After she’d finished, Effi showed her round the apartment. ‘You’ll sleep with me,’ she said. ‘I hope that’s all right.’
‘I think so,’ Rosa agreed. ‘I go to bed at eight o’clock.’
‘Where you were before,’ Effi asked, ‘did you go down to the shelter for the air raids?’
‘Not when my mother was alive. We had to stay in the shed where we lived. We used to get under the bed, but mother went out to get something.’ Her eyes brimmed with tears, which she angrily wiped away. ‘Frau Borchers took me down after that. She said I was her niece from Dresden, and that my mother and father had been killed.’
‘That’s a good story,’ Effi agreed. ‘We shall say the same here.’
Later that evening, as the British thundered overhead, she told the same story to Frau Esser. The block warden wrote down the fictional details, which someone somewhere would doubtless try to verify. Most such stories, as many U-boats had found to their cost, could eventually be checked, but surely the time was now too short. With any luck at all, the Gestapo would be much too busy
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