Masaryk Station (John Russell) by David Downing

yourself, and your, shall we say, symbolic importance to many Berliners, as both a famous film star and a heroine of the resistance.’
    Her acting skills, Effi noticed, were obviously neither here nor there. ‘I’m looking forward to reading it,’ she said non-committally, picking up the envelope.
    ‘There are also two copies of a contract,’ the Russian continued. ‘The suggested fee is of course open to negotiation, but we think it’s generous.’ He paused, while she took a look.
    It was probably the most she’d ever been offered for a film, but then Goebbels had been notoriously stingy with actresses who wouldn’t sleep with him. ‘It is,’ she agreed.
    ‘Payable in American dollars,’ Samoshenko added, as if that would be the clincher.
    ‘I’ll start reading it tonight,’ she promised. If only to discover why the film, and her participation, seemed so vital to Tulpanov’s Ministry. She started to rise.
    ‘One more matter,’ Samoshenko said, as she gathered up her bag.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Your adopted daughter, Rosa.’
    There was a way in which he accented the ‘adopted’ that sent a chill through Effi’s heart. ‘Yes?’ she said again, fighting to keep the fear from her voice.
    ‘She has extraordinary talent.’
    ‘She has.’ Rosa had been compulsively drawing people and scenes since Effi had inherited her, aged eight, in the past few weeks of the war. One drawing of a Red Army soldier playing with a German child had appeared in a Soviet magazine, and become an almost iconic image of the Soviet liberation. Not in Berlin, of course, where the Soviet-built Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was known as the Tomb of the Unknown Rapist, but almost everywhere else in the civilised world. Stalin’s government had even paid her one tranche of royalties.
    ‘A talent that can be hardly be nurtured in Berlin today,’ Samoshenko suggested. ‘In Moscow and Leningrad we have world-famous institutes of art which could really help her development.’
    Effi could hardly believe it. ‘You’re asking us to send an eleven-year-old girl off alone to a foreign country? You must know what she’s been through.’
    ‘Yes, of course. And no, not alone. You would be expected to accompany her—we do make films at home, you know. And your husband, too. He’s an American journalist, I understand. I’m sure there are many American papers who would welcome a fully accredited Moscow correspondent.’
    Effi didn’t know what to say. She decided to be diplomatic. ‘I appreciate the offer,’ she began. ‘And I know how wonderful Soviet education is, and the value your country puts on culture. Instinct tells me she’s still too young. But I will discuss it with my husband. He’s away at the moment, but when he comes back …’
    ‘Of course,’ Samoshenko interrupted, still smiling. He shook her hand again, and held the door open.
    The car was still waiting outside, along with the chauffeur and three impatient colleagues.
    ‘What was that all about?’ one of the women asked Effi.
    ‘My daughter,’ she said, in a tone guaranteed to deter furtherquestions. As they drove back towards the centre of the city, she went through the conversation again in her head. There had been no threats, so why did she feel so threatened? Was it merely the thought of losing Rosa?
    She told herself the whole business was more absurd than menacing. Was it possible that Tulpanov’s people didn’t know that the Berlin MGB considered John one of their own? How would they feel about the Propaganda Ministry relocating one of their people to Moscow, where the only people he could spy on was them?
    No, she told herself, there was no need to worry. They needed John in Berlin, and he needed his wife and daughter with him.
    That evening Effi fussed over Rosa more than usual, and received several bemused looks in return. But on the following morning she suffered a serious shock. With another afternoon start at the studio, she spent part of the