Free Lehrter Station by David Downing

Russell saw a look of utter enchantment on Paul’s face, the same one he’d seen at the boy’s first Hertha game, all those years ago.
    Dynamo went ahead with another invisible goal, and Arsenal finally wilted. Much of the crowd was already heading for the exits by this time, but Russell and Paul hung on until the final whistle blew, and the last of the players had been swallowed by the mist.
    ‘That was incredible,’ Paul said, as they emerged onto the High Road. The buses and trolleybuses were all stuck in the stationary traffic, so they joined the stream heading south, stopping halfway down for a bag of soggy chips.
    A train steamed out across the road bridge as they neared the station, and their platform was almost empty when they reached it. Russell expected Paul to pull out his book, but he didn’t. ‘Do you want to go back home?’ he asked his son. ‘Eventually, I mean.’
    Paul stared out into the fog for several moments. ‘I don’t know,’ he said at last. ‘I like it here,’ he added almost reluctantly after another long pause, ‘but perhaps that’s only because it’s easier to hide from the past here. I don’t know. What would I do in Berlin? There’s no work there. No paid work anyway. Here I can fill up my day, and earn some money.’ He looked at his father.
    ‘I’m happy here,’ he said, sounding almost surprised that he was.
    ‘I don’t know how long I’ll be gone,’ Russell told him.
    Paul smiled. ‘You don’t have to worry about me, Dad. Really. I only had one nightmare this last week – did you notice?’
    ‘Yes,’ Russell said. Effi had pointed it out.
    ‘It’s like a poison,’ Paul said. ‘It has to work its way out of your system – that’s the way I see it. And you have to let it. But not by pretending that everything’s fine. Do you remember telling me once how important it was to keep your mind and your emotions turned on?’
    ‘I remember.’ He’d been trying to explain what he’d learnt fighting in the First War.
    ‘Well I’ve tried to do that, and I think it works. It’s like an antidote.’
    Russell winced inside as he thought of the pain his son had been through, was still going through. ‘You don’t think talking helps?’
    ‘I do talk to people,’ Paul said. ‘Just not the family.’
    ‘Who then?’ Russell asked, feeling hurt and knowing he shouldn’t be.
    ‘Solly’s a great listener. And Marisa is too. It would be hard talking to you, Dad. Or to Effi.’
    ‘I suppose it would,’ Russell conceded reluctantly. He had never been able to talk to his own parents about the trenches.
    A train was audible in the distance, and two fuzzy lights soon swam into view. ‘And the talking does help,’ Paul said.
    ‘Good,’ Russell told him. Crammed inside the suburban carriage compartment for the journey home, he felt a huge sense of relief. He might be going back into hell, but his son was going to be all right.
    * * *
    On Thursday afternoon Russell collected their tickets from Embassy reception, and had a long talk with Solly Bernstein about the sort of freelance articles which the latter would be able to sell, always assuming that Russell could find some way of getting them back to London. According to Solly, no one was interested in the hardships of ordinary Germans, and not many more in the fate of Europe’s surviving Jews. Though there might be some mileage in the growing number of those intent on breaching the British wall around Palestine.
    Arriving home around six, Russell walked into a wonderful aroma – Zarah had used all their newly surplus rations for a farewell family dinner. But the cheerful mood seemed forced, and he and Effi were relieved to escape for a few minutes’ packing. There was, in truth, not much to take – they had left Germany with next to nothing, and had bought little in London. ‘I’m sure actresses are supposed to have more clothes than this,’ was Effi’s conclusion as she closed her battered suitcase.
    In