Freedom

A cry echoed in the grim grey that was the partially-walled square of an East Berlin check point. Accelerating clicks of steel-tipped Russian boots brought conversation in the lonely huddle nearby to an abrupt halt.

The clicking ended with a metallic thud of steel against concrete and Albert Udellowicz was suspended for an instant above rusty coils of barbed wire. A narrow gap in temporary boarding was his one-way street to the West and, if not freedom, a new life.

Two weeks later, a flurry of diplomatic activity, inquiries but little protest, receding, Albert Udellowicz walked away from the bustle of the main streets of the Western-controlled area of Berlin and towards the southern residential part of the city. In a pocket his hand fumbled the few coins and precious paper that had been handed to him. A khaki knapsack on his shoulder bore the stencilled lettering of a name now free in another world, scored through by an Allied office crayon, and contained identification papers, folded neatly, and a letter of introduction to Frau Trenzel who would provide him with the information he sought.

"Osnowski. Gustav Osnowski. Let me see." Frau Trenzel was a red-cheeked lady with short, straight, pale grey hair cut in a thick fringe at the front which seemed to rest on her black spectacles. A plain blue woollen pullover was tight on her ample figure but a heavy grey skirt blossomed copiously from beneath it. She stood at a dark-stained wood cabinet, chipped and scratched with well-worn finger-holes in the places handles had once been attached. It rocked slightly as she pulled out a drawer, brimming with thin, faded brown files, themselves containing a selection of thin paper and index cards.

"Yes. Here we are. Yes. He passed through our care, as we like to call it, a couple of years ago. A damaged leg . . . knee . . . but he had to be retired. Otherwise seems to have survived well. Oh well, I suppose I'd better get you organised...." She sighed slightly, a weary sigh, and yet she managed to beam at him as she sat down at the black typewriter and turned the bakelite knurled knob at the end of the carriage.

Albert flickered a smile back but his eyes showed no emotion - just weariness - and he stepped across and leaned heavily against the poster-clad walls of the office. Fading and creased from multiple folding and stained in places, they were neatly mounted on the glazed surface of the wall, its uneven surface showing through and giving false contours to the pictures and words. The strange Regency buildings of Brighton in the background of a yellow beach and a row of deck chairs clashed rather with the brash blue lettering advertising a concert in Felixstowe. Even stranger was the LNER information sheet and its weird fractional prices: 1/10d; 4½d, which baffled Albert.

Frau Trenzel noticed his attention and paused in her typing.