The Legion of the Lost, стр. 43

Time no longer meant anything at all.

But it began to reassert itself, for there was soon a faint light in the eastern sky. After a while he realised that the glow was the first light of morning. They were in a built-up area, and it dawned on him, when he passed a devastated stretch like that at Lubeck, that they were in Berlin. Even that realisation did not give him any sense of satisfaction, for the train went on and on, creeping along at no more than five miles an hour.

Then, in broad daylight, when the passengers were beginning to wake up, they drew into Friedrichstrasse Station.

Their rendezvous was an apartment house off the Kurfuerstenstrasse and they reached the long, wide boulevard after ten minutes or so of walking. There was no question at all of getting a taxi, there seemed to be no way of transport except cycles and a few horse-drawn vehicles, although several times single-decker buses, dangerously overloaded, passed them at a slow pace. Dirt and dreariness were everywhere. The centre of Berlin, once as bright and clean and gay as Paris, in some ways as imposing as London, was stripped of its facade and stood revealed for what it was – a city without tradition, one which, when put to the test, could not stand up to the disasters which had come upon it.

There were huge gaps in the houses, some of the biggest buildings were no more than empty shells. No attempt had been made to clear them up, as in London; only the streets were clear of debris.

They turned right off the boulevard and found themselves in a network of narrower streets. There were few people about; those whom they saw looked at them with lack-lustre eyes. It was grotesque – the abode of the Herrenvolk turned to dust and dirt. Palfrey managed to wonder how much of their depression was due to their travel-weariness and hunger, but when they reached Number 11 Kelstrasse, a small turning linking two wider ones, he only thought of getting somewhere to sleep. Yet he seemed more awake than any of the others except Stefan. As they reached the door and knocked on it he realised the danger of this situation – they were Swiss nationals about to take up the reservations made for them by the Nazis, so they had to act the part.

When a thin, drab woman opened the door, Palfrey said: ‘I am Professor Pienne and his party, from Berne. We are expected.’ He yawned realistically.

‘Yes,’ the woman said, looking at them sourly. ‘Come with me.’ She counted them as they entered, aloud. ‘One—two—three—four—five.’ Then in a tone of disgust: ‘One hundred marks. One hundred!’ She muttered under her breath and led them up a flight of narrow stairs, past the first and second landing to the third, which was dark and gloomy and the floor of which creaked as they walked. She pointed to several doors only just visible in the gloom.

‘Share as you like,’ she said. ‘These are your quarters.’

‘Thank you,’ said Palfrey. ‘Thank you!’ Her disgusted ‘one hundred marks’ came back to him as if from a long distance. He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a twenty-mark note. ‘For your trouble,’ he said, handing it to her.

Her eyes lighted up; for the first time some expression showed on her face. She nodded her untidy head, then walked past him and opened one of the doors.

‘There is food on the table,’ she said, ‘and—Mein Gott!’

Vaguely, Palfrey wondered why she exclaimed.

As vaguely, he saw her standing in the doorway and staring into the room. He did not know what was there, did not greatly care until she turned and hurried past him, going down the stairs with such haste that twice she stumbled.

The five stared at one another as Palfrey, licking his lips and suddenly filled with something more than vague alarm, stepped towards the door. Stefan moved with him. Simultaneously they saw the man sitting at a table and staring towards them, a gross-bellied man whose paunch seemed to rest upon his knees, his face florid and fat, with little porcine eyes and a wide, badly-shaped mouth, parted in what was presumably intended for an ingratiating smile.

‘Welcome to Berlin!’ he said, rising unsteadily, his uniform tight about him. ‘Heil Hitler!’ He put up his hand in a casual salute; Palfrey and Stefan responded automatically.

‘And which, please, is Herr Pienne?’ demanded the fat German. ‘Herr Pienne,’ he added. There seemed some underlying threat in the words. Some distant awareness of danger and the possibility of a trap was in Palfrey’s mind as he said stiffly: ‘I am Professor Pienne.’

‘Ah, yes, yes. Professor.’ The gross creature smiled more widely, then he caught sight of Drusilla. His eyes widened, he stared at her and licked his lips. ‘The Herr Professor will be good enough to introduce me,’ he said.

Palfrey thought in a sudden panic: ‘What’s Drusilla’s name? What’s her name?’ On the tip of his tongue was her real name, ‘Blair’; it nearly came out. There seemed to be a long pause before his mind worked. Then he remembered that her name was Berg, not Blair.

He bowed.

‘Fräulein Berg, may I have the honour of introducing—’ he paused and began to boggle again. What was the fellow’s name? What was his name? He’d forgotten that, too. Damn it, there was no reason why he should know!

‘I am Stolte, plain Herr Stolte—no Professor!’ declared the fat German with a greasy laugh. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Fräulein, we shall get on well. It is my privilege to be your guide for your first days in Berlin.’ He laughed again. ‘A greater privilege than I expected, I will admit!’

Palfrey said, trying not to sound testy: ‘We shall sleep for our first day in Berlin, nothing more, Herr Stolte. And eat—’ he looked towards the table. There was