He’d been walking since first thing, and was sick and tired of it. He stank too, sour and rank, like dog’s piss in straw, so pungent that he could even smell himself. He sat there listlessly, shivering as a windy blast blew over his head. It was like broad daylight on the Champs-Élysées, but he looked up at the dark night sky, and felt his whole body grow limp as the last of his remaining strength ebbed away.

  Alyosha felt he was living once again according to his own calendar. Within time, there were several types of time: the steady cycle of the seasons; the daily rhythm of the Parisian day, with its peaks and troughs of business and bustle, the metro doors opening and the metro doors shutting; but his own time was, for all purposes, outside time, as he didn’t count for anybody. In the enormity of the city, he was completely isolated. The most difficult thing for an exile was learning how to stay. The longer the stay, the worse the pain and the homesickness, especially when hope was so elusive, lurking somewhere on the horizon, only to slip ever further away the more one chased it.

  He hoisted himself to his feet and walked from one shop window to the next, looking without seeing, though he caught the eye of a couple of policemen, whose suspicious looks followed him for a while. He stopped for a moment and thought, Tomorrow, what will I do tomorrow? As the frost did its work concreting the night, he felt his toes freeze. He lifted the collar of his coat and walked on alone into the black forest of the city.

  43.

  Prague felt less oppressive than Berlin, its streets and squares unadorned by black swastikas. She found the building in a street off Wenceslas Square, a small brass plaque by the door noting that the Centre was on the third floor. As she climbed up the narrow stairs, Margarita had to pause for a moment because of the stitch in her side. On the landing at the top of the third floor, an old man and woman were sitting on a wooden bench, holding hands with a distant look in their eyes. She gave her name to the receptionist, and was told to wait until she was called, so she joined them on the bench.

  ‘Margarita?’

  She turned when she heard her name, and couldn’t hide her surprise to see Vicky standing at the door. Her hair was copper-coloured now, and had grown to her shoulders. Vicky offered her a cigarette and they both smoked.

  ‘How did you arrive here?’ Vicky asked.

  ‘I could ask you the same thing.’

  She took Margarita to an office at the back of the house, which must have once been a bedroom. Vicky wanted to hear how Margarita had reached Prague, so Margarita had to relive it all. How she had bought a pair of second-hand skis to take with her on the train from Berlin, so that she could say she was going on a vacation to the mountains. The ruse had worked, and nobody had challenged her on the train. It was after that her troubles had started, especially the two days she had spent hiding in a house by the border, so tantalisingly close to safety. They’d told her it was better to wait for a cloudy night, and she’d spent the time hidden in the attic, too nervous to sleep, aware of every tiny sound or movement outside. She’d been able to hear the river, which signified the border between the two countries. On both sides, there’d been coils of barbed wire, soldiers and dogs.

  The second night, there’d been only a sliver of moon keeping an eye on the world, so the son of the house had led her to the crossing place, where the water was shallow, and shown her the gap in the barbed wire. He’d told her to be wary as she’d walked over the Sudeten, as many of the farmers there were already Nazis and were suspicious of anybody crossing their land.

  Vicky asked who the boy was.

  ‘I didn’t ask and he didn’t say.’

  Even when she was safely over the border, the danger hadn’t passed by any means. She’d been starving, and had ventured into an inn to ask about the next train, but the woman had advised her not to catch it at the nearest station, but to go further down the valley to a smaller station. An old man who’d been carrying a load of hay in his cart gave her a lift.

  Vicky persisted with her questions. Who was the old man? Had any arrangements been made from Berlin for her to meet anybody? Did she have any contacts? It became clear to Margarita that there was more than one path out of Germany, and more than one group helping fugitives to escape. Margarita didn’t say a word about Julik and Käthe Kozlecki, who had given her shelter on the outskirts of Liberec. The two had been highly active in the KPD in Berlin at one time, before becoming disillusioned and joining the IKP. Vicky knew them both well – and hated them.

  Vicky asked her where she was staying in Prague, and Margarita told her she hoped to find lodgings in a cheap hotel, but she had no money, which was why she had come straight to the Centre. Again, she had no intention of mentioning the address that Julik had given her. She duly filled in a form so that the committee could assess if she qualified for financial assistance as a destitute refugee.

  ‘Take this for now.’

  Vicky pressed a small sum of money into her hand, and Margarita thanked her. But as Vicky saw her out, she told her that her case would be expedited if her presence at a branch meeting was noted.

  ‘As it happens, there’s a meeting tonight. 36 Moravska Street, on the ground floor. You’ll come?’

  This only confirmed what Margarita had already guessed. The Centre for Dispensing Aid to Refugees Fleeing Fascism in Prague had another purpose. Its proper work was to be the ears and eyes of the KPD in exile.

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock.’

  She didn’t go near the place. Nevertheless, within a couple of days her claim had been processed, and Vicky told her that she was eligible for financial assistance.

  ‘Here you are,’ she said, giving her the money, ‘but what happened? I didn’t see you in the meeting the day before yesterday.’

  ‘I’d intended coming but I was exhausted and I fell asleep.’

  From her sceptical expression, it seemed that Vicky knew she was lying.

  ‘It’s important you come. There’s so much work to do.’

  But Margarita kept away. She didn’t intend dirtying her hands with the KPD ever again. Her main preoccupation was securing a visa to enter France. Kai-Olaf had warned her in a telegram that, without one, she would risk being deported straight back to Germany. But Margarita was finding kicking her heels while she waited for a decision frustrating. She spent most of her time reading, or talking to people at the Centre who were in the same boat as herself.

  One morning, as she was reading the Prager Mittag, a shadow fell over the newspaper. Looking up, she saw Vicky standing there. Direct as ever, she asked Margarita why she hadn’t been to a single meeting of the KPD branch since she’d arrived in Prague. This was the third she had missed. Missing one was bad. Missing two was reprehensible. But missing three was unforgiveable. Margarita didn’t have a ready answer to hand. Vicky looked down at her with something like contempt and said, ‘Either you’re with us through and through, or you’re against us.’

  She dropped the butt of her cigarette into Margarita’s coffee cup where it hissed and died, turned on her heel without another word, and walked away.

  Margarita bought herself another cup of coffee and tried to calm her fury. She realised that she was vulnerable, and that the committee could leave her destitute. This fear spurred her on to look for work, as she had no idea how long it would take for her visa to arrive, even with Kai-Olaf doing his best for her in Paris. However, all aliens had to fill in the requisite paperwork to work legally, and she needed to prove she was a genuine refugee. She left the form at the Centre for them to vouch for her, but when she went back to pick it up, the young girl in the office broke the news to her. Angry, but remaining calm, she asked if she could talk to Vicky about it, but was told that she wasn’t there. She said she would see somebody else, and didn’t intend leaving until somebody with authority talked to her.

  She went to sit on the bench at the head of the stairs.

  Eventually Vicky appeared.

  ‘Why have you refused to vouch for me?’

  ‘We don’t have to explain our reasons.’

  Vicky turned away, but Margarita grabbed her wrist. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Because you’re supportive of the enemies of the working class.’

  Margarita stared in disbelief at the narrow face in front of her. ‘How exactly?’ Vicky sucked slowly on her cigarette. ‘I don’t hear anybody else accusing me of being supportive to the enemies of the working class.’ She could feel herself losing her temper. ‘What? You’re going to punish me… for not coming to the meetings? You’re just looking for an excuse not to support me. Fine.’ And she added defiantly, ‘I don’t want your money. But at least give me the chance to try and earn my own crust.’

  Vicky considered this for a moment and then asked, ‘Why should we?’

  Margarita could barely contain herself. ‘Do you remember last year in Berlin? That cold winter’s night when you came knocking at my door because you had nowhere else to go? What did I do?’

  ‘Why should we give you any help?’

  ‘After everything I’ve done for the KPD – and for you Vicky?’ Vicky said nothing. ‘How else can I live until my visa is granted?’

  ‘That’s a matter for you and the IKP.’

  ‘This is the only Refugee Centre the Czechoslovakian government acknowledges. Without your cooperation I don’t have a hope.’

  Out on the pavement, Margarita nearly screamed with frustration. She was so angry she would have burnt the place to ashes, if she’d only had the means.

  She wondered desperately where she could turn for help.

  44.

  Lili’s hands were covered in flour when she opened the door. She went back to making her dumplings as Margarita told her what had happened. If the committee had turned its back on her, where did that leave her? Lili told her it would be best if she wrote to the committee members asking them to reconsider their decision, and hope for the best.

  Margarita drafted and re-drafted the letter, explaining why she had been forced to leave Berlin with only the clothes on her back, and delivered it by hand to the Centre. But two days later, before she’d received a response, Lili’s husband came back from work and asked Margarita to leave.

  ‘But why? What have I done?’

  He showed her his copy of Lidoré Noviny and translated the report on the second page of a Gestapo agent operating a circle of spies against Czechoslovakia. There, in print, was her name. Margarita’s knees turned to jelly.

  ‘I don’t want you here,’ he told her. ‘You can stay until tomorrow morning – not an hour more.’

  ‘It’s all lies.’

  Lili took the paper from her husband to read the article for herself.

  ‘This isn’t true.’ Margarita insisted. She gripped the edge of the table and tried to stand up, but her legs were useless. For a second, the kitchen went dark, as though she had been struck blind.

  ‘Not one word of this is true, please believe me.’

  ‘Hitler’s spy,’ he said.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘It says here that you were working for the Gestapo in Berlin,’ added Lili, ‘That you betrayed a Bolshevik and turned him over to them.’

  ‘I was working for the cause in Berlin. Ask Kai-Olaf. Or Julik and Käthe. They’ll vouch for me; I was against the Gestapo. Against Hitler. That’s what I was doing, until it became too dangerous. Why would I need to flee if I was working for the Gestapo?’

  The next day, the story was on the front page of the Prager Montagsblatt.

  Lili and her husband sat mute and fearful with her over breakfast. They’d packed a bag for her with a few borrowed items of clothing – all her worldly possessions.

  The door shut after her with a thankful thud.

  45.

  Margarita sat on a stone bench under the shade of a sycamore tree in Stromovká Park. As she gazed out at the lake, she imagined for a moment how lovely it would be to watch the sun set over it on a warm summer evening, but her thoughts were soon back to her predicament. Her greatest concern now was not herself, but Larissa. If as much as a whisper of the story that she was a Gestapo spy reached Moscow, it might make things extremely difficult for her sister. What if they thought Larissa was a spy, too? She could be arrested and imprisoned. What would become of the little girls then? She had to protect her good name, not just for herself, but for her sister’s sake.

  She decided to pay a visit to the Prager Montagsblatt offices and speak to the editor. But when she got there, he was in a meeting, and refused to see her. She tried to stand her ground, but found herself being accompanied out of the building between two of the clerks. She went straight to the nearest café and wrote an angry letter to the editor, but then she reasoned that if he wouldn’t see her, then no more would he publish her letter. She found the nearest kiosk and telephoned him, using a false name. Before he could hang up, she blurted out that he had been manipulated by the KPD, and that they had fabricated the story to punish her for not attending their meetings. He told her irritably that, as far as he was concerned, the information came from a reliable source, and he had no intention of publishing a retraction and apology without incontrovertible proof.

  ‘But what about my good name?’

  Margarita hated the desperate tone she could hear in her own voice. The editor told her it wasn’t his responsibility to protect her good name. If she happened to be telling the truth – which he doubted – then she should call the KPD to account, not him.

  ‘You’ve ruined my reputation. I’m homeless and friendless thanks to you.’

  He didn’t have an answer to that.

  The same accusations were reprinted in other newspapers, where she was described as the daughter of an officer in the Tsar’s army, who had left Russia in order to work for the counter-revolution in Europe. She was a cunning and wily spy, who had managed to embed herself within the Berlin proletariat in order to betray communists to the Gestapo. Now, she had turned her sights to undermining the government of Czechoslovakia.

  Vicky’s fingerprints were all over it.

  46.

  Prague became a cold and hostile place. Margarita stood on Karlov bridge, watching winter swimmers diving into the Vlatva from the steps on the riverbank. One of the men reminded her of Kai-Olaf, and she realised she hadn’t seen him for almost a year.

  Somehow, she had to leave Prague and go to him in Paris. Apart from anything else, if she stayed, it was surely only a matter of time before she was arrested as a Gestapo spy. She carried on walking aimlessly through the narrow streets of the Old Town trying to think of a way of doing it, when she suddenly came face to face with Eggert, and hopelessness turned to hope. Eggert took one look at her, before whisking her off to the Koruna and buying her a meal, which Margarita tried not to stuff down too quickly, starving as she was. He told her that the Gestapo had smashed the IKP in Berlin, and most of the members had been picked up and arrested. He had managed to escape, but he had no intention of staying in Prague. Like Margarita, he was set on reaching Paris. Margarita told him her own troubles, but Eggert was very reassuring. He said he had already read the newspaper reports, but hadn’t believed a word of it, of course. Vicky had done far worse things to other people.

  ‘Like what?

  ‘She’s sent individuals back to Germany to undertake underground work, but somehow or other, the Gestapo are waiting for them. At least seven have been caught that I know about; there may well be more.’

  Margarita couldn’t believe even Vicky to be capable of this.

  ‘It’s true, every word,’ Eggert told her. ‘The KPD have been lost for years. That’s why the work of the IKP is more important than ever. Trotsky will carry the day. Of that, I’m certain.’

  ‘Is he in Paris?’ she asked.

  ‘He was there for a day last month. That’s where he’d like to be, if they let him. I’m not sure what will happen. His son, Lev Sedov, is already there, since he had to get out of Berlin.’

  That night, they slept in a studio flat a stone’s throw away from the Jewish cemetery, where another émigré from Germany was living. Eggert didn’t explain how they knew each other, and Margarita didn’t need to know. She was just grateful to be sleeping on a sofa, rather than out on the streets. The next day, she and Eggert left for France, without visas.

  They crossed Czechoslovakia by train, slipping over the border to Austria easily enough on foot, and then made another train journey, on the uncomfortable wooden benches of third class, to Vienna. There, they stayed a week, and, thanks to Eggert’s contacts, left with forged passports and visas, given to them by a man named George. They still had no legal right to live in France, however, as although a passport with a visa would allow them to enter the country, without a permis de séjour, they were of limited value. George warned them that the authorities were being particularly draconian at present because of the constant flow of refugees arriving from every corner.

  From Vienna, the two crossed the border to Switzerland hidden in the back of a lorry transporting carpets. After spending three nights in Geneva, they were instructed by a local contact to be ready to leave on the Thursday night.

  Spending so much time together, Margarita and Eggert had plenty of time to exchange stories. He had been born into a wealthy family, one of three children, and had been brought up in the Black Forest. Along with his two brothers, he’d been educated at the famous Cistercian seminary in Maulbronn, but, unlike them, he’d loathed the wealthy elitism, the snobbery and the restrictive and petty rules, and had run away. He’d decided to live the life of the open road, and had followed his nose from place to place. He’d eventually found himself in Paris, working in a cast-iron factory at Creil. That’s where his true education had taken place. In the end, he’d been sacked for organising strikes for better wages and conditions.