“This is it,” McKinley said, with the sort of enthusiasm others reserved for stumbling across El Dorado. The object of his excitement was a short cul-de-sac of decaying tenement blocks wedged between railway arches, small industrial workshops, and the Neukцllner Schiffahrtkanal. One forlorn streetlight threw a faint yellow glow over glistening brickwork and rusty iron. It looked, Russell thought, like the sort of place a particularly sentimental German communist would come to die.
They had been looking for it for almost an hour, ever since playing hide-and-seek with their probably imaginary Gestapo tail in the Neukцlln branch of the KaDeWe department store. The object of their quest had, according to McKinley, told them to make sure they were not followed, and he had done his best to oblige, leading Russell into the store by the main entrance and out through the kitchens, pursued only by the shouts of an enraged chef. They had then headed east on foot, turning this way and that down a succession of rapidly darkening and profoundly unwelcoming streets. Russell had expected streams of workers returning home, but they had only come across a few, and McKinley’s requests for navigational assistance had been met with either guarded suspicion or outright hostility. Russell had wondered whether the young American could feel the money burning a hole in his pocket. There were lights behind the curtains of the residential streets, but they felt far away.
This street, Schцnlanker Strasse, was no exception. The block they were looking for was the last, pushed up against the elevated tracks of what was probably a freight line. As they reached the entrance another source of light came into view-the red glow of a signal hanging in the darkness.
The limp swastika hanging over the entrance looked like it hadn’t been washed since 1933. Entering the dimly lit hall, they found the concierge’s door. McKinley tried two taps with the door-knocker-too softly, Russell thought, but the door swung open almost immediately. A middle-aged woman with a rather striking face ushered them inside and quickly closed the door behind them.
“Who is this?” she asked McKinley with an angry gesture toward Russell. She had a thick Rhenish accent, which explained why the American had so much trouble understanding her.
“He’s a friend. He speaks better German than I do,” McKinley explained, rather in the manner of someone reassuring a foolish child.
She gave Russell another look, thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Come through,” she said shortly.
The living room was clean but almost bare. There were no comfortable chairs, only a couple of stools beside a small table and what looked like homemade cushions on the floor. A tattered but once-expensive rug occupied the center of the wooden floor. A girl of around five or six was sitting on it, leaning forward over a drawing she was working on. She didn’t look up when they entered.
“That’s Marietta,” the woman said. “She gets very absorbed in what she’s doing,” she added, as if she needed to explain the child’s lack of reaction.
Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jьrissen. She was younger than he’d first thought-around 35, probably-but she looked both exhausted and malnourished. Only the eyes, a penetrating gray, seemed full of energy.
“Please take the chairs,” she said, but McKinley insisted that she take one. He remained standing, his lanky bulk seeming somewhat incongruous in the center of the room. Apparently realizing as much, he retreated to a wall.
“Have you brought the money?” Frau Jьrissen asked, almost apologetically. This was not a woman who was used to poverty, Russell thought. “This is the only work I can do and look after her all day.”
McKinley produced his wallet, and counted what looked like several hundred Reichsmarks into her hand. She looked at the pile for a moment, and then abruptly folded the notes over, and placed them in the pocket of her housecoat. “So, where shall I begin?” she asked.
McKinley wasted no time. “You said in your letter that you could not keep silent when children’s lives were at stake,” he said, pronouncing each word with the utmost care. “What made you think they were?”
She placed her hands on the table, one covering the other. “I couldn’t believe it at first,” she said, then paused to get her thoughts in order. “I worked for the Brandenburg health ministry for over ten years. In the medical supplies department. I visited hospitals and asylums on a regular basis, checking inventories, anticipating demands-you understand?”
McKinley nodded.
“After the Nazi takeover most of the women in my department were encouraged to resign, but my husband was killed in an accident a few weeks after I had Marietta, and they knew I was the only bread-winner in the family. They wanted me to find another husband, of course, but until that happened… well, I was good at my job, so they had no real excuse to fire me.” She looked up. “I’m sorry. You don’t need to know all this.” She looked across at her daughter, who had still shown no sign of recognition that anyone else was in the room. “I suppose I knew from the start that she wasn’t, well, ordinary, but I told myself she was just very shy, very self-absorbed… I mean, some adults are like that-they hardly notice that anyone else exists.” She sighed. “But I got to the point where I knew I had to do something, take her to see someone. I knew that might mean she’d be sterilized, but… well, if she stayed the way she is now, she’d never notice whether she had any children or not. Anyway, I took her to a clinic in Potsdam, and they examined her and tested her and said they needed to keep her under observation for a few weeks. I didn’t want to leave her there, but they told me not be selfish, that Marietta needed professional care if she was ever to come out of her shell.”
“Did they threaten you?” McKinley asked.
“No, not really. They were just impatient with me. Shocked that I didn’t immediately accept that they knew best.”
“Like most doctors,” Russell murmured.
“Perhaps. And maybe they were completely genuine. Maybe Marietta does need whatever it is they have to offer.”
“So you took her away?” McKinley asked.
“I had to. Just two days after I left her in the clinic I was at the Falkenheide asylum-you know it? It’s just outside Fьrstenwalde. I was in the staff canteen, checking through their orders over a cup of coffee when I became aware of the conversation at the next table. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. And they were speaking quite normally-there was nothing clandestine about it. In a way that was what was most shocking about it-they assumed that their topic of conversation was common knowledge. As far as the asylum staff were concerned, that is.” She paused, and glanced across at Marietta. “What they were talking about was a letter which had been sent out by the Ministry of Justice to all directors of asylums. That letter wanted the directors’ opinions on how they should change the law to allow the killing of incurable children. Should they announce a new law, or should they issue administrative decrees and keep the public in ignorance? This is what the people at the next table were debating, even joking about. Three of them were doctors I recognized, and the woman looked like a senior nurse.”
“This was all spelled out?” Russell asked incredulously. He instinctively trusted her-could see no reason for her to lie-but her scene in the canteen sounded like one of those stage conversations written to update the audience.
“No,” she said, giving Russell an indignant look. “They were talking more about how the parents would react, whether they would prefer to hear that their children had simply died of whatever illness they had. It was only when I read the letter that it all made sense.”
“How? Where?” McKinley asked excitedly.
“Like I said, I was in that job a long time. I was on good terms with people in all the asylums. I knew I had to see the letter for myself, and I waited for a chance. A few days later a director was called out early, and I pretended I had to work late. I found the letter in his office.”
“I wish you’d kept it,” McKinley said, more to himself than her.
“I did,” she said simply.
“You did!” McKinley almost shouted, levering himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Where is it? Can we see it?”
“Not now. I don’t have it here.”
“How much do you need?” Russell asked.
“Another five hundred Reichsmarks?” The question mark was infinitesimal.
“That’s-” McKinley began.
“Good business sense,” Russell completed for him. “She needs the money,” he added in English.
“Yes, of course,” McKinley agreed. “I just don’t know how… But I’ll get it. Shall I come back here?” he asked her.
“No,” she said. “It’s too risky for me. Send the money to the posterestante on Heiligegeiststrasse. When I get it, I’ll send you the letter.”
“It’ll be there by tomorrow evening,” McKinley said, as he printed out the Neuenburgerstrasse address.
Russell stood up. “Did you have any trouble getting Marietta back?” he asked Theresa Jьrissen.
“Yes,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me take her. I had to steal my own child. That’s why we’re here in this place.”
They all looked down at the girl. Her drawing looked like a forest after a hurricane had hit it. “I wish you luck,” Russell said.
He and McKinley reached the street as a coal train thundered over the arches, and set about retracing their steps. It was raining now, the streets even emptier, the rare neighborhood bar offering a faint splash of light and noise. They didn’t speak until they reached the tram stop on Berlinerstrasse.
“If you get this story out, it’ll be your last one from Germany,” Russell said.
McKinley grinned at him. “Worth it, though, don’t you think?”
Russell saw the excitement in the young American’s eyes, like an echo of his own younger self. He felt a pang of envy. “Yes, I do,” he agreed.
Russell’s first port of call on the following morning was about ten kilometers, and several worlds, away from Schцnlankerstrasse. The villa, just around the corner from the State Archive in the wealthy suburb of Dahlem, was surrounded by trees full of singing birds, most of whom were probably warbling their gratitude to the Fьhrer. In Schцnlankerstrasse it was probably still raining in the dark, but here the sun shone down out of a clear blue sky. The coffee had not been as good since the Jewish cook had been “allowed to leave,” but everyone had to make sacrifices.
His pupil Greta was a sixteen-year-old with no interest in learning English. She did, however, like practicing her flirting techniques on him. Today it was a new wide-eyed expression which she seemed to think was appealing. She was, he had to admit, a lesson in the nature of beauty. When he’d first set eyes on her, he’d been struck by how gorgeous she was. After eighteen months of getting to know her, he found her marginally more attractive than Herman Goering. Her grasp of English had hardly improved at all in that time, but that didn’t seem to worry anybody. Her father, a doctor of similar age to Wiesner, had not been cursed with the same tainted blood.
An hour later, richer in Reichsmarks but poorer in spirit, Russell retraced his steps down the sunny avenues to the Dahlem-Dorf Ubahn station. Changing at Wittenbergplatz, he bought a paper at a platform kiosk and glanced through it on the ride to Alexanderplatz. The Swiss were the latest target: As neutrals, a lead writer announced, they should refrain from expressing opinions about other countries and refuse to take in refugees. The Germans, on the other hand, should get their colonies back. Three reasons were given. The first was “inalienable right,” whatever that was. The second was “economic need,” which presumably came under the inalienable right to loot. The third, which made Russell laugh out loud, was Germany’s “right to share in the education of backward peoples.” “Thanks to her racial principles,” the writer announced confidently, “the Third Reich stands in the front rank of Powers in this respect.” Russell thought about this for a while, and decided it could only mean that Germany was well-placed to educate the backward peoples in how deserving their backwardness was.
At Alexanderplatz he picked up the previous Saturday’s Daily Mail for the girls, and discovered that rain was likely to affect the weekend’s English cup ties. Several columns were given over to Schacht’s dismissal, and he found three other articles on German matters. This, as McKinley had said, was where the story was.
Most interesting to Russell, though, was the picture on the back page of the streamlined steam locomotive Coronation, hanging between ship and quay en route to America for some celebration or other. He would keep that for Paul.
He thought about his son as the tram ground its way northwest toward Friedrichshain. On the telephone two nights earlier Paul had used all the right words to describe a thrilling weekend with the Jungvolk, but there had been a different story in the tone. Or had there? Maybe it was just that adolescent reticence which psychiatrists were so full of these days. He needed a proper talk with the boy, which made that weekend’s summons to Cracow all the more annoying. And to make matters worse, Hertha were at home that Sunday too. Paul could always go with Thomas, but… an away game, he thought suddenly. He could take Paul to an away game the following Sunday. A real trip. He could see no reason why Ilse would object.
And Cracow would be interesting, if nothing else. He had already booked his sleeper tickets and hotel room, and was looking forward to seeing the city for the first time. Both his agents had loved the “Germany’s Neighbours” idea, so he thought there would be some money in it, too.
He reached the Wiesners’ stop, walked the short distance to their block, and climbed the stairs. Dr. Wiesner, who he hadn’t seen for a couple of weeks, opened the door. He looked noticeably more care-worn, but managed a smile of welcome. “I wanted to thank you for talking to Albert,” he said without preamble. “And I’d like to ask you another favor. I feel awkward doing this-and please say no if it’s too difficult-but, well, I am just doing what I must. You understand?”
Russell nodded. What now, he wondered.
Wiesner hesitated. He also seemed more unsure of himself, Russell noticed. And who could blame him?
“Is there any way you could check on the rules for taking things out of the country? For Jews, I mean. It’s just that they keep changing the rules, and if I ask what they are then they’ll just assume I’m trying to get around them.”
“Of course,” Russell said. “I’ll let you know on Friday.”
Wiesner nodded. “One person I know asked about a miniature which had been in his family for a hundred years, and they simply confiscated it,” he went on, as if Russell still needed convincing.
“I’ll let you know,” Russell said again.
“Yes, thank you. I’m told there’s a good chance that the girls will be allowed to go, and I’d like to… well, provide for them in England. You understand?”
Russell nodded.
“Very well. Thank you again. I mustn’t take up any more learning time.” He stepped to the adjoining door and opened it. “Girls, come.” He said it gruffly, but the smile he bestowed on them as they trooped in was almost too full of love. Russell remembered the faces on the Danzig station platform, the sound the woman had made. A different Mother, he thought.
The two girls fell on the Daily Mail.
“You can keep it, apart from the back page” he told them, and explained that he wanted the picture for his son.
“Tell us about your son,” Marthe said. “In English, of course,” she added.
He spent the next twenty minutes talking and answering questions about Paul. The girls were sympathetic to the philatelist, indulgent toward the football fan and lover of modern transport, dismissive of the toy soldier collector. They were particularly impressed by the tale of how, around the age of five, he had almost died of whooping cough. Telling the story, Russell felt almost anxious, as if he wasn’t sure how it was going to end.
He turned the tables for the second half of the lesson, inviting them to talk about their own histories. He regretted this almost instantly, thinking that, given their situation, this was likely to prove upsetting for them. They didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t that they thought the family’s current difficulties were temporary; it was more a matter of their knowing, even with all their problems, that they had more love in their lives than most other people.
It was one of the nicest hours he had ever spent, and walking back to the tram stop on Neue Konigstrasse he reminded himself to thank Doug Conway for the introduction the next time he saw him.
The opportunity soon presented itself. Back at the apartment, he found a message from Conway, asking him to call. He did so.
Conway didn’t sound like his usual self. “One of our people would like a word,” he said.
“What about?” Russell asked warily.
“I don’t know. I’m just the messenger.”
“Ah.”
“Could you come in, say, tomorrow morning, around eleven?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’d like to see you, too. We’re leaving, by the way. I’ve been posted to Washington.”
“When? And why haven’t you told me?”
“I’m telling you now. I only heard a couple of days ago. And we’re going in a couple of weeks.”
“Well I’m sorry to hear that. From a purely selfish point of view, of course. Is it a promotion?”
“Sort of. Touch of the up, touch of the sideways. Anyway, we’re having a dinner for a few people on the third-that’s next Friday-and I hoped you and your lady friend could come.”
“Oh, Effi will be…” Working, he was going to say. But of course she wouldn’t-Barbarossa would be over, and Mother didn’t start shooting until the thirteenth. “I’ll ask her,” he said. “Should be okay, though.”
The Cafu Kranzler was full of SS officers the next morning, their boots polished to such perfection that any leg movement sent flashes of reflected light from the chandeliers dancing around the walls. Russell hurried through his coffee and, with half an hour to burn, ambled down Unter den Linden to the Schloss. The Kaiser’s old home was still empty, but the papers that morning were full of his upcoming eightieth birthday party in Holland. “Come back, all is forgiven,” Russell murmured to himself.
After the Unter den Linden the British Embassy seemed an oasis of languor. The staff drifted to and fro, as if worried they might be caught speeding. Was this the new British plan? Russell wondered. Slow the drift to war by slowing the diplomats?
Doug Conway eventually appeared. “One of our intelligence people wants to talk to you,” he said quietly. “Nothing formal, just a chat about things.” Russell grunted his disbelief, and Conway had the grace to look embarrassed. “Not my idea-I’m just the messenger.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“Well, I am. Look, I’ll take you up. He’s a nice enough chap. His name’s Trelawney-Smythe.”
It would be, Russell thought. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.
Trelawney-Smythe’s office was a small room high at the back of the building, with a compensating view of the Brandenburg Gate. Conway introduced Russell and withdrew. Trelawney-Smythe, a tall dark-haired man in his thirties with a worried-looking face, ushered him to a seat.
“Good of you to come,” he began, rifling through papers on his overcrowded desk. Russell wondered if Sturmbannfьhrer Kleist gave private lessons in desk arrangement. “Ah,” Trelawney-Smythe said triumphantly, extracting a copy of Pravda from the mess. A handwritten sheet was attached with a paper clip.
“My latest masterpiece,” Russell murmured. Why was it, he wondered, that British officialdom always brought out the schoolboy in him? After reading one of the Saint stories Paul had asked him why the Saint was so fond of prodding Chief Inspector Teal in the stomach. Russell had been unable to offer a coherent explanation, but deep down he knew exactly why. He already wanted to prod Trelawney-Smythe in something.
The other man had unclipped the handwritten sheet from the newspaper and carefully stowed the paper clip away in its rightful place. “This is a translation of your article,” he said.
“May I see it?” Russell asked, holding out a hand.
Somewhat taken aback, Trelawney-Smythe handed it over.
Russell glanced through it. They had printed it more or less verbatim. He handed it back.
“Mr. Russell, I’m going to be completely frank with you,” Trelawney-Smythe said, unconsciously echoing Sturmbannfьhrer Kleist.
Don’t strain yourself, Russell thought.
“You used to be a member of the British Communist Party, correct?”
“Yes.” He wondered if Trelawney-Smythe and Kleist had ever met.
“Then you know how the communists operate?”
“You think they all operate the same way?”
“I think the Soviets have certain well-practiced methods, yes.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Well, then. We don’t think this will be the end of it. We think they’ll ask for more and more.”
“More and more articles? And who is we?”
Trelawney-Smythe smiled. “Don’t play the innocent. You know who ‘we’ are. And you know I’m not talking about your articles, amusing as they are. We think they’ll be asking you for other information. The usual method is to keep upping the ante, until you’re no longer in a position to refuse. Because they’ll shop you to the Germans if you do.”
“As you said, I know how they operate. And it’s my lookout, isn’t it?”
“Not completely. Do you see this?” Trelawney-Smythe asked, indicating the words at the foot of the article, which identified the name, nationality, and credentials of the author.
“Yes.”
“An Englishman currently living in Germany,” Trelawney-Smythe read out, just to be sure.
“That’s me.”
Trelawney-Smythe tapped on the paper with an index finger. “You are English, and your behavior will reflect on the rest of us. Particularly at a time like this.”
“A ‘don’t-rock-the-boat-for-God’s-sake’ sort of time?”
“Something like that. Relations between us and the Soviets are, shall we say, difficult at the moment. They don’t trust us and we don’t trust them. Everybody’s looking for signals of intent. The smallest thing-like Pravda inviting you to write these articles-could mean something. Or nothing. They could be planning to use you as a channel to us or the Germans, for passing on information or disinformation. We don’t know. I assume you don’t know.”
“I’m just doing my job.”
“All right. But how would you feel about providing us with advance copies of your articles. Just so we know what’s coming.”
Russell laughed. “You too?” He explained about his arrangement with the SD. “Why not?” he said. “I might as well run off a few carbons for Mussolini and Daladier while I’m at it.” He put his hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to lift himself up. “Anything else?”
“We would appreciate being told if this goes beyond a mere commercial arrangement. And obviously we’d be interested in anything you learn which might be of use to your country.”
“I’ve already learned one thing. The Soviets think the British and French are trying to cut them out. Look how long Hitler gave the ambassador at the opening last week. Look at the new trade deal talks. If you don’t start treating the Soviets as potential allies, they’ll do a deal with Hitler.”
“I think London’s aware of that.”
“You could have fooled me. But what do I know?” He looked at his watch. “I have a lunch date.” He extended his hand across the desk. “I’ll bear what you’ve said in mind.”
“Enjoy your lunch.”
Russell dropped in on Conway on his way out.
“Still talking to me?” the diplomat asked.
“You, yes; the Empire, no.”
“He’s just doing his job.”
“I know. Look, thanks for the dinner invite. I’ll let you know soon as I can.” Russell paused at the door. “And I will be sorry to see you go,” he added.
It was a fast five-minute walk to Russischer Hof on Georgenstrasse, where he and Thomas usually met for lunch. As he hurried east on Unter den Linden Russell replayed the conversation with Trelawney-Smythe in his mind. Rather to his surprise it had been refreshingly free of threats. If British intelligence wanted to, he imagined that they could make his life a lot more difficult. They could take away his passport, or just make renewal harder. They could probably make it harder for him to sell his work in England, his prime market. A word to a few knighthood-hungry editors-in fact a mere appeal to their patriotism-and his London agent would be collecting rejections on his behalf. On the plus side, it was beginning to look as if every intelligence service in Europe was interested in employing him.
It was a raw day, the wind whipping in from the east, and Russell turned up his collar against it. A tram slid under the railway bridge, bell frantically ringing, as he turned off Friedrichstrasse and into Georgenstrasse. The Russisches Hotel was a nineteenth-century establishment once favored by Bismarck, and sometimes Russell wondered if they were still recycling the same food. The elaborate dйcor created a nice atmosphere, though, and the usual paucity of uniformed clientele was a definite bonus.
Russell’s ex-brother-in-law was seated at a window table, glass of Riesling in hand, looking dourly out at the street. The dark gray suit added to the sober impression, but that was Thomas. When they’d first met in the mid-20s Russell had thought him the epitome of the humor-less German. Once he had gotten to know him, however, he had realized that Thomas was anything but. Ilse’s brother had a sly, rather anarchic sense of humor, completely lacking in the cruelty which marked much popular German humor. If anything he was the epitome of the decent German, an endangered species if ever there was one.
The pot roast with cream sauce, red cabbage, and mashed potatoes seemed an ideal riposte to the weather, which was now blowing snow flurries past their window. “How’s the business?” Russell asked, as Thomas poured him a glass of wine.
“Good. We’ve got a lot of work, and exports are looking up. The new printers have made a huge difference. You know the World’s Fair in New York this April? It looked for a moment as if we might have a stand there.”
“What happened?”
“It seems the organizers have decided to include a pavilion celebrating pre-Nazi German Art. And йmigrй art. If they do, the government will boycott the Fair.”
“That’s a shame.”
Thomas gave him a wintry smile. “Given the context, it’s hard to be that upset. And there’s always the chance that the Ministry would have refused to let us go. Because of our employment policies.”
Only one firm in Berlin employed more Jews than Schade Printing Works.
“You don’t have room for one more, I suppose?” Russell asked, thinking of Albert Wiesner.
“Not really. Who do you have in mind?”
Russell explained the Wiesners’ situation.
Thomas looked pained. “I have a waiting list of around two hundred already,” he said. “Most of them are relatives of people who already work there.”
Russell thought of pressing him but decided not to. He could hear Albert in his head: “One family’s success is another family’s failure.” “I understand,” he said, and was about to change the subject when the waiter arrived with their meals.
Both men noticed that the portions seemed smaller than usual. “Sign of the times,” Thomas observed.
The roast tasted better than usual, though. “Any chance of things getting better?” Russell asked. Thomas had no more inside information than Russell’s other friends in Berlin-and considerably less than many-but he’d always had a remarkable knack for knowing which way the wind was blowing.
“I don’t know,” was his answer. “Ribbentrop’s off to Warsaw again. They seem to be trying.” He shrugged. “We’ll probably find out more on Monday.”
That was the day of Hitler’s annual speech to the Reichstag commemorating his own accession to the Chancellorship. “I’d forgotten about that,” Russell admitted.
“You’re probably the only person in Europe who has. I think the whole continent’s hanging on it. Will he keep the pressure on, demand more? Or will he take the pressure off? That would be the intelligent move. Act as if he’s satisfied, even if he’s only pausing for breath. But in the long run… It’s hard to see him stopping. He’s like a spinning coin. Once he stops spinning, he’ll fall flat.”
Russell grunted. “Nice.”
They asked after each other’s better halves, both current and former.
“You’re asking me?” Thomas said when Russell enquired after Ilse. “I haven’t see her for weeks. Last time we went over there, well…” He didn’t continue.
“You didn’t have a row?”
“Oh no, nothing like that,” Thomas said, as if rows were something that happened to other people. Which, in his case, they usually were. “I just find Matthias so… oh, I don’t know… complacent? Is that the right word for people who say they fear the worst but live their lives as if there’s bound to be a happy ending?”
“It might be,” Russell agreed. He realized he hadn’t told Thomas about his trip to Cracow, or asked him to take Paul to the match on Sunday, and did so now.
Thomas was happy to take Paul, but bemused by Russell’s choice of Cracow for the “Germany’s Neighbours” series. “Wouldn’t a day trip to Posen have been good enough?” he wanted to know.
Russell had a sudden desire to tell Thomas about Shchepkin-if something went wrong, there would be someone to offer some sort of explanation to Paul and Effi-but held himself back. He would be compromising Thomas, and to what real end? What could go wrong?
Waiting behind another customer for his Friday morning paper, Russell caught sight of the headline: BARCELONA FALLS. On impulse, he turned away. That was one story he didn’t want to read. The Spanish Civil War was over. The good guys had lost. What else was there to say?
As it had gone down so well on his last visit, he bought another ancient Daily Mail at the Alexanderplatz kiosk. This had an article on young English girls collecting stamps, which he knew would interest Ruth and Marthe, and a big piece on the recent loss of the Empire Flying Boat Cavalier, complete with map and diagram, which Paul would love. He saved the best, however, for the very end of the girls’ lesson-a report on a tongue-twisting competition on the BBC. Trying to say “should such a shapeless sash such shabby stitches show” got Ruth giggling so hard she really was in stitches, and Marthe fared little better with “the flesh of freshly fried flying fish.”
The doctor was not at home, so Russell handed the copy of the latest rules governing Jewish emigration to Frau Wiesner. He had collected them the previous day from the British Passport Control Office. “But they ignore their own rules half the time,” the young official had told him bitterly. “You can count on getting a change of clothes past them, but anything else is as likely to be confiscated as not. If your friends have any other way of getting stuff out, they should use it.”
Russell passed on the advice, and watched Frau Wiesner’s heart visibly sink.
“If you need help, ask me,” he said, surprising himself. “I don’t think I’d have any trouble shipping stuff to my family in England.”
Her eyes glowed. “Thank you,” she said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.
He journeyed home to pack, stopping off in Alexanderplatz for a late lunch. At least he was pleasing some people. He hadn’t seen Effi since Sunday and the round of mutual accusations which he had so stupidly instigated. They hadn’t had a row-they had even managed two reasonably friendly conversations on the telephone-but he knew she was angry with him, and his non-availability for the Barbarossa sendoff had made things worse.
Paul didn’t seem that much happier with him, despite the promise of a trip the following Sunday to see the cup tie in Dresden. There was something going on, but Paul wasn’t prepared to talk about it, at least not on the telephone.
Frau Heidegger was glad to see him, and sorry his imminent train prevented him from joining her for coffee. Up in his apartment, he threw a few spare clothes into a suitcase, checked that he had his notes for the next article, and headed back down. On the next landing he ran into a smiling McKinley.
“Everything okay?” Russell asked in passing.
“Uh-huh. I’m just waiting for our friend’s letter and… bingo!”
Russell laughed and rattled on down the stairs.
He arrived at the Schlesinger Bahnhof with twenty minutes to spare. The train was already sheltering under the wrought-iron canopy, and he walked down the platform in search of his carriage and seat. As he leaned out the window to watch a train steam in from the east a paper boy thrust an afternoon edition under his nose. The word Barcelona was again prominent, but this time he handed over the pfennigs. As his train gathered speed through Berlin’s industrial suburbs he read the article from start to finish, in all its sad and predictable detail.
Three years of sacrifice, all for nothing. Three years of towns won, towns lost. Russell had registered the names, but resisted further knowledge. It was too painful. Thousands of young men and women had gone to fight fascism in Spain, just as thousands had gone, like him, to fight for communism twenty years earlier. According to Marx, history repeated itself first as tragedy and then as farce. But no one was laughing. Except perhaps Stalin.
Russell supposed he should be glad that Spain would soon be at peace, but even that was beyond him. He stared out the window at the neat fields of the Spree valley, basking in the orange glow of the setting sun, and felt as though he were being lied to. Seconds later, as if in confirmation, the train thundered through a small town station, its fluttering swastika deep blood-red in that self-same glow, a crowd of small boys in uniform milling on the opposite platform.
The food in the restaurant car proved surprisingly good. The menu had a distinctly Polish flavor, although as far as Russell could see there were few Poles on the train. Most of his fellow-passengers were German males, mainly commercial travelers or soldiers on leave. There was only a sprinkling of couples, though the pair at the next table had enough sexual energy for ten. They could hardly keep their hands off each other while eating, and the young man kept checking his watch, as if willing the train on to Breslau, where the sleeping coaches would be attached.
The couple soon disappeared, probably in search of an empty bathroom. The romance of trains, Russell thought, staring at his own reflection in the window. He remembered the overnight journey to Leningrad with Ilse in 1924, just after they’d met. People had slept in the bathrooms on that train, and anywhere else they could find a space. He and Ilse had had to wait.
Fifteen years. The Soviet Union had come a long way since then, one way or another. Some people came back from visits singing its praises. There was still much to do, of course, but it was the future in embryo, a potential paradise. Other returnees shook their heads in sadness. A dream warped beyond recognition, they said. A nightmare.
Russell guessed the latter was nearer the truth, but sometimes wondered whether that was just his natural pessimism. It had to be a bit of both, but where the balance lay he didn’t know.
More to the point, what did Moscow want with him? What they said they wanted? Or something else? Or both? Trelawney-Smythe had been certain they would ask for more, and Kleist had hinted as much. He didn’t even know who he was dealing with. Was Shchepkin NKVD or GRU? Or some other acronym he hadn’t even heard of? A French correspondent in Berlin had told him that the NKVD was now split between a Georgian faction and the rest, and for all Russell knew the GRU was eaten up by factional rivalry over how much salt they put in the canteen borsht.
And why was he assuming it would be Shchepkin again? The revolution was burning its human fuel at quite a rate these days, and Shchepkin, with his obvious intelligence, seemed highly combustible.
He would have to deal with whoever presented himself. Or herself. But what would he or she want? What could they want? Information about German military strengths and weaknesses? About particular weapons programs? Political intentions? Military plans? He had no information-no access to information-about any of that. Thank God.
What did he have that they valued? Freedom to move around Germany. Freedom to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Even more so now, with Kleist’s letter in his possession. Maybe one of their agents had gone missing, and they would ask Russell to find out what had happened to him. Or they might want to use him as courier, carrying stuff to or from their agents. That would explain the meetings outside Germany.
Or they could use him as a conduit. The Soviets knew the Germans would check up on him, and assumed he would be asked for reports on his meetings. And the British too. They would have counted on the British calling him in. They could use him as a human mailbox, with Kleist and Trelawney-Smythe as the sorters.
They might be just making it up as they went along. His unusual situation made him potentially useful, and they were still looking for a way to realize that potential. That would explain the articles and oral reports-a sort of halfway house to prepare him for a truly clandestine life. There was no way of knowing. Russell leaned back in his chair, remembering the remark of a Middlesex Regiment officer in 1918. “Intelligence services,” the man had said, “are prone to looking up their own arses and wondering why it’s dark.”
Soon after 10:00 PM the train reached Breslau, the destination of most passengers. As they filtered out through the dimly lit exit, many of the remaining passengers took the chance to stretch their legs on the snow-strewn platform. Russell walked to the back of the train and watched a busy little shunter detach four saloons and replace them with three sleepers. It was really cold now, and the orange glow from the engine’s firebox made it seem more so.
He walked back up the platform, arms clasped tightly across his chest. “Cold, eh,” a young soldier said, stamping his feet and taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He was only about eighteen, and seemed to have a summer uniform on.
As Russell nodded his agreement a whistle sounded the all aboard.
Walking up the train, he reclaimed his seat in an almost empty carriage. The sleeping car attendants would be rushed off their feet for the next quarter of an hour, and he wasn’t ready for sleep in any case. As the train pulled out of the station the ceiling lights were extinguished, allowing him a view through the window of flat meadows stretching north toward a distant line of yellow lights. The Oder River, likely as not.
Hoping for some conversation he revisited the restaurant car, but the only customers were a middle-aged German couple deep in the throes of an argument. The barman sold him a Goldwasser, but made it abundantly clear he was through talking for the day. Around 11:30 Russell reluctantly worked his way back down the train to the sleeping cars. The attendant showed him to his berth, and generously pointed out that the one above was unoccupied. He could take his pick.
Russell tossed his bag on the upper bunk, used the bathroom, and climbed half-dressed into the lower bunk. He would have a bath when he reached his hotel, he thought. It was an expensive one, so he didn’t think there would be any problem with hot water.
As usual, he couldn’t sleep. He lay there, feeling the sway of the train, listening to the click of the wheels on the rail joints, thinking about Effi. She was younger than him, eight years younger. Maybe people’s expectations shifted after a certain age, which he’d reached and she hadn’t. Was that why they were still living apart? Why had neither of them ever mentioned marriage? Was he afraid of something? He didn’t think so. But then, what was the point of turning their lives upside-down when the Fьhrer was about to do it for them?
Shortly after 8:00in the morning he was standing, yawning, on one of Cracow Plaszуw station’s snow-covered platforms. After eventually getting to sleep, he had twice been roused for border inspections, and could hardly have felt worse if he’d been awake all night.
He started toward the exit, and almost went over on a patch of ice. Further up the platform a line of young railway employees were working their way toward him, breath pumping, shoveling snow and noisily digging at the ice beneath with their spades. The sky above them seemed heavy with future snowfalls.
His hotel was on the other side of Cracow’s old town, some three miles away. He found a taxi outside the station, and a taxi-driver who wanted to practice his English. He had a cousin in Chicago, he said, but he wanted to go to Texas and work in the oil industry. That was where the future was.
As they drove north through the Jewish quarter Russell noticed an image of the Marx Brothers adorning a cinema on Starowi?lna Street. The name of the film was in Polish, but his driver’s English failed him. He asked again at the Hotel Francuski reception, and received a confident answer from a young man in a very shiny suit. The film, which had only just opened, was called “Broth of the Bird.”
His room was on the third floor, looking out on Pijakska Street, which was full of well-insulated, purposeful walkers, presumably on their way to work. A church stood just across the way, the beauty of its rococo faзade still visible beneath the clinging snow.
The room itself was large, high-ceilinged and well-furnished. The bed gave without sagging; the two-person sofa was almost luxurious. The small table and upright chair by the window were custom-made for the visiting journalist. There was a spacious wardrobe for hanging his clothes. The lights all worked, both here and in the adjoining bathroom, which seemed almost as big. The water ran hot in the spacious four-legged bath, and Russell lay soaking until he realized he was falling asleep.
After a shave and change of clothes he ventured out again. As he had expected, it was snowing, large flakes of the stuff floating down in dense profusion. Following the receptionist’s directions, Russell turned right outside the door, and right again opposite the church, into?w Jana Street. Following this south across two intersections he reached the Rynek Glуwny, Europe’s largest market square. The center of the huge expanse was occupied by a Gothic hall, but Russell’s eyes were instantly drawn to his left and the loveliest church he had ever seen. Two asymmetrical towers soared skyward through the curtain of snow, one climaxing in a flurry of spires, the other, slightly less high, with a small renaissance dome. Both were stacked with windows, like a medieval skyscraper.
For several minutes he stood there entranced, until the cold in his feet and a hunger for coffee drove him into one of the cafйs that lined the square. Two cups and a roll packed with thick slices of bacon later he felt ready to face a day of work. The cafй might have been half-empty, but all the customers were “Germany’s Neighbours.” He introduced himself to one young Polish couple and took it from there. For the next few hours he worked his way round the cafйs and bars of the old town, asking questions.
Most of those he approached spoke some English or some German, and he didn’t get many refusals. His own Englishness usually got him off to a favorable start, since many of his interviewees chose to believe that he had a personal line to Neville Chamberlain. Would England fight for Poland? they all asked. And when Russell expressed a sliver of doubt as to whether she would, they couldn’t believe it. “But you fought for Belgium!” several of them said indignantly.
There was virtual unanimity about Poland’s situation. Germany was a menace, the Soviets were a menace: It was like choosing between cholera and the Black Death. What did they think about the German request for an extra-territorial road across the corridor? They could whistle. Would they fight for German Danzig? Every last stone. Would they win? He must be joking.
He couldn’t be certain of course, but the few people who refused him all looked Jewish. A shadow dropped over their eyes when he introduced himself, a hunted look on their faces as they backed away, pleading lack of time or some other excuse. As if he were an advance guard for the Nazis, his very presence in Cracow a harbinger of disaster.
The snow kept falling. He ate an omelette for lunch in one of the Rynek Glуwny cafйs, and then trudged up and down the main shopping streets in search of a present for Effi. He half-expected Shchepkin to suddenly appear at his shoulder, but there was no sign of him or of anyone who seemed like one of his associates. As far as Russell could tell, no one was tracking his footsteps in the snow.
After slipping on some icy cobbles and being almost run over by a tram he decided a rest was in order and retreated to his hotel for a nap. It was 7:00 by the time he woke, and he felt hungry again. A new receptionist recommended a restaurant on Starowi?lna Street, which turned out to be only a few doors from the cinema showing the Marx Brothers movie. It was too good an invitation to miss. After partaking of a wonderful wienerschnitzel-at least Cracow had something to thank the Hapsburg Empire for-he joined the shivering queue for the evening showing.
Inside the cinema it was hot, noisy, and packed. Surveying the audience before the lights went down, Russell guessed that at least half of the people there were Jewish. He felt cheered by the fact that this could still seem normal, even in a country as prone to anti-Semitism as Poland. He wished Ruth and Marthe were there with him. And Albert. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Albert laugh.
The newsreel was in Polish, but Russell got the gist. The first item featured a visit to Warsaw by the Hungarian Foreign Minister, and no doubt claimed that he and Colonel Beck had discussed matters of mutual importance, without spelling out what everyone knew these were-choosing their cuts of Czechoslovakia once the Germans had delivered the body. The second item concerned Danzig, with much piling of sandbags round the Polish Post Office. The third, more entertainingly, featured a man in New York walking a tightrope between skyscrapers.
The movie proved a surreal experience in more ways than one. Since it was subtitled in Polish, the audience felt little need to keep quiet, and Russell had some trouble catching all the wisecracks. And as the subtitling ran a few seconds behind the visuals, he often found himself laughing ahead of everyone else, like some eccentric cackler.
None of it mattered, though. He’d loved the Marx Brothers since seeing Animal Crackers during the last days of the Weimar Republic, before Jewish humor followed Jewish music and Jewish physics into exile. By the time “Broth of the Bird” was half an hour old he was literally aching with laughter. The film’s subject-matter-the approach of an utterly ridiculous war between two Ruritanian countries-was fraught with contemporary relevance, but any dark undertone was utterly overwhelmed by the swirling tide of joyous anarchy. If you wanted something real to worry about, there were cracker crumbs in the bed with a woman expected. The only sane response to rampant patriotism was: “Take a card!” As the audience streamed out of the cinema, at least half the faces seemed streaked with tears of laughter.
It had stopped snowing. In fact, the sky seemed to be clearing. As he walked back toward the city center, Russell had glimpses of the Wawel Castle and the cathedral silhouetted against a starry slice of sky. Following the tram-lines through a gap in the old medieval walls he eventually reached the Rynek Glуwny, where the cafйs and restaurants were humming with conversation and all sorts of music. Standing in mid-square beside the Cloth Hall he could hear pianos playing Mendelssohn, Chopin, and American blues.
People were having fun. They did that in Berlin too, but there was something different in the air. In Berlin there was always an edge of caution: looks over the shoulder, a rein on the tongue. Maybe there was one here too-heaven knew, the regime in Warsaw was illiberal enough-but he couldn’t feel it. If the Poles were facing the most threatening year of their recent existence, they weren’t letting on.
He thought about having a nightcap, but decided on not making things anymore difficult for Shchepkin than he needed to. He was only spending one night at the hotel.
There was no sign of him in the lobby, or of anyone else, suspicious or not. There was no message at reception when he collected his key. After ascending in the delightful glass-and-wrought-iron cage, he found his corridor silent, his door locked. The room was empty. Laughing at himself, he checked the wardrobe. No Shchepkin. No Harpo Marx.
It was almost midnight. He stretched out on the sofa with the book of John Kling detective stories which Paul had loaned him weeks before, one ear cocked for footsteps in the corridor, but all he heard was an occasional drunken shout from the street below. At 12:45 he gave up and went to bed, laughing in the dark about cracker crumbs.
He was woken by church bells. It was just after eight, a thin line of gray light separating the curtains on the near window. Russell clambered out of bed and pulled them back. The tip of the church spire opposite was lit by an invisible sun, the sky clear. It looked bitterly cold.
He had mixed feelings about Shchepkin’s non-appearance. He couldn’t help feeling annoyed that he might have come all this way, missing a weekend with Effi and Paul, only to be stood up. On the other hand, he could hardly say the weekend had been wasted: He liked Cracow, had loved Duck Soup, and had the makings of a “Germany’s Neighbours” article. If the Soviets were already tired of him he supposed he should feel relieved, but he couldn’t help feeling an unexpectedly poignant sense of anti-climax.
If nothing else, he told himself, the projected Soviet series had inspired him to generate others. And Shchepkin-he looked at his watch-still had seven hours to make contact before his train left.
He was damned if he was going to stay cooped up in his room, even assuming the hotel would let him. He decided to pack and take his bag to the left luggage at the main station, which was only five minutes’ walk away. He could get a taxi from there to the Plaszуw station when the time came.
An hour later, he was enjoying coffee and rolls in an almost empty station buffet. There were no English or German papers for sale, and-it being Sunday morning-there was little activity to observe. One small shunting engine chugged its way through in apparent search of work, but that was it. Russell was about to leave when a dark-haired young man loomed over his table. “Have you a pencil I could use?” he asked in German.
Russell handed his over.
The man sat down, wrote out what appeared to be train times on the corner of his newspaper, and handed the pencil back. “Zygmunt’s Chapel,” he said pleasantly as he got to his feet. “Two o’clock.”
Russell reached the foot of the ramp leading up to the Wawel with time to spare. On the slopes of the hill several bunches of children were throwing snowballs at each other and squealing with delight, while their parents stood and chatted, plumes of breath coalescing in the air between them. Away to the left, the yellow walls and red tile roof of the Royal Palace stood stark against the clear blue sky.
The ramp ended in a gate through the old fortifications, close by the southern end of the cathedral. This-in contrast to the church on the Rynek Glуwny-was an elegant mess featuring spires and domes in a bewildering variety of styles and sizes, as if the whole thing had been arranged by a playful child.
The Zygmunt Chapel was off the nave to the right. The tombs of two men-kings, Russell assumed-were vertically stacked amid a feast of renaissance carving. The accompanying writing was in Polish, but he recognized the name Jagiello from the Danzig stamp wars.
“Beautiful, yes?” said a familiar voice at his shoulder.
“It is,” Russell agreed. Shchepkin was wearing the same crumpled suit, and quite possibly the same shirt, but on this occasion a dark green tie was hanging, somewhat loosely, beneath the collar. A fur hat covered his hair.
“Have you visited Cracow before?” the Russian asked.
“No, never.”
“It’s one of my favorite cities.”
“Oh.”
“Have you seen the Holy Cross Chapel?” Shchepkin asked.
“No…”
“You must. Come.” He led the way back toward the entrance, and the chapel to its left. Russell followed, somewhat amused at being shown the wonders of Christendom by a communist agent.
The chapel was extraordinary. There was another Jagiellonian tomb, carved in marble in the year Columbus stumbled across America, and a series of slightly older Byzantine frescoes. As they emerged, Shchepkin stood looking down the nave, then turned his eyes upward toward the soaring roof.
“My father was a priest,” he said in reaction to Russell’s look. “One thing more,” he added, gesturing toward the shrine in the center of the nave. It held a silver coffin of staggering workmanship. “It was made in Danzig,” Shchepkin pointed out, as if their relationship needed geographical continuity. “Enough,” he added, seeing Russell’s expression. “We’ll save the crypts for another time. Let’s go outside.”
Between the cathedral and the walls overlooking the Vistula there was a large open space. Russell and Shchepkin joined the scattering of couples and small groups who were following the freshly cleared circular path, almost blinded for a while by the brightness of sun on snow.
“The article was perfect,” Shchepkin said eventually. “Just what was required.” He produced an envelope from his pocket and slipped it into Russell’s. “For your research work,” he said.
Russell stole a quick look at it. It was a banker’s draft in reichsmarks. Lots of them.
“What’s the next article about?” Shchepkin asked.
“Transport.”
“Excellent. So what are you telling me today?”
Russell went through the results of his visit to Dresden, his impressions and analysis. It all seemed pretty obvious to him, but Shchepkin seemed satisfied enough, nodding and interjecting the occasional question or comment. Russell had the feeling he could have listed the stations on the Ringbahn.
After one circuit they started another. They were not alone in this, but one man in particular, limping along fifty yards behind them, struck Russell as suspicious. But when he glanced over his shoulder for the third time Shchepkin told him not to worry. “One of mine,” he said almost affectionately. “Local help,” he added, rubbing his hands together. “What did the SD have to say?”
Russell recounted his meeting with Kleist, and the demand for previews of each article. He also told Shchepkin about the letter Kleist had written for him, and regretted doing so almost instantly: He wanted the Russian worried for his safety, not encouraged to risk it. “And the British want previews, too,” he added quickly, hoping to divert his listener with an unwelcome shock.
Shchepkin, though, just laughed. “And how are you explaining these trips?” he asked.
Russell explained about “Germany’s Neighbours” and “Ordinary Germans.”
“Not bad,” Shchepkin said. “We will make an intelligence officer of you yet.”
“No thanks.”
Shchepkin gave him one of those looks, amused but disappointed. “Are you planning to take sides in the coming war?” he asked.
“Not if I can help it,” was Russell’s instinctive response. If truth be told, he had no idea.
“Have you heard of the poet Yeats?” Shchepkin asked out of the blue.
“Of course.”
Shchepkin grunted. “One never knows with the English. So many of you look down on anything Irish.”
“Yeats is a wonderful poet.”
“He died yesterday,” Shchepkin said.
“I didn’t know.”
“You know that poem, ‘The Stolen Child’? I always loved that line, ‘a world more full of weeping than you can understand.’ ”
Russell said nothing.
Shchepkin shook his head, as if to clear it. “We’ll meet in Posen next month. Or Pozna? as the Poles call it now. And we’d like you to talk to armament workers,” he said. “In Berlin, the Ruhr-you know where the big factories are. We need to know if there are problems there, if the workers are ready for political action.”
“That’ll be difficult,” Russell said.
“Ordinary German workers, caught between their natural desire for peace and patriotic concern for the Fatherland,” Shchepkin suggested. “I’m sure you can manage it.”
“I’ll try,” Russell agreed.
“You must,” Shchepkin said. “And you really should wear a hat.”