Zoo Stationee

Zoo Stationee Page 8

by David Downing

“The second reason?” Russell prompted.

  “Oh, that’s easy. A lot of Americans just don’t like Jews. They think they’re getting their comeuppance. If they had any idea just how harsh that comeuppance some of them might, might, have second thoughts, but they don’t.”

  “I guess that’s down to us.”

  “Us and our editors,” Slaney said. “We’ve told the story often enough. People just don’t want to hear it. And if you keep on and on about it they just turn off.”

  “Europe’s far away,” Manning said.

  “And getting farther,” Slaney added. “Jesus, let’s think about something pleasant for a change.” He turned to Russell. “John, I’m organizing a poker night for next Tuesday. How about it?”

  THE FOURSOME EMERGED INTO the daylight soon after 3:00, and went their separate ways—Peyton to his mistress, Slaney and Manning to write their copy for the morning editions. Russell, walking south down Wilhelmstrasse, made the impulsive decision to drop in on Sturmbannführer Kleist while he was still in the neighborhood. A small voice in his head protested that the Sicherheitsdienst was best encountered stone-cold sober, but it was promptly drowned out by a louder one insisting that there was nothing to be afraid of. The meeting was just a formality. So why not get it over with?

  The fresh-faced blond receptionist seemed pleased enough to see him, gesturing him through to an anteroom with the sort of friendly smile that could soften up any man. Sunk into one of the leather chairs, Russell found himself staring at the latest product of the Propaganda Ministry’s poster artists: Hitler complete with visionary stare and catchy slogan—EIN VOLK, EIN REICH, EIN FÜHRER. On the opposite wall a more colorful poster showed apple-cheeked youth frolicking in the Alps. That was the thing about these people, he thought: They never surprised you.

  The minutes dragged by; the later pints of beer pressed ever-harder for release. He went back out to the receptionist, who pointed him in the direction of a toilet with the same sunny smile. The toilet was spotless and smelled as if it had just been hosed down with Alpine flowers. One of the cubicles was occupied, and Russell imagined Heydrich sitting with his breeches round his ankles, reading something Jewish.

  Back in the ante-room he found company. A man in his sixties, smartly dressed. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. The man shifted nervously in his seat, causing the leather to squeak. Hitler stared at them both.

  After about twenty minutes the sound of clicking heels seeped into the silence, and another young blonde appeared in the doorway. “Herr John Russell?” she enquired. “Follow me, please.”

  They went down one long corridor, up some steps, down another corridor. All Russell could hear was the rhythmic click of the blonde’s shoes. No sounds escaped through the numerous doors they passed, no talk, no laughter, no typewriters. There was no sense that the building was empty, though, more a feeling of intense concentration, as if everyone was thinking fit to burst. Which, Russell realized, was absurd. Maybe the SD had a half-term break, like British schools.

  Through the window on a second flight of stairs he caught a glimpse of a large lawn and the huge swastika flying over Hitler’s new home. At the end of the next corridor the heels swung right through an open doorway.

  Room 48 was not so much a room as a suite. The secretary led him through her high-ceilinged anteroom, opened the inner door, and ushered him in.

  STURMBANNFÜHRER GOTTFRIED KLEIST—as the nameboard on the desk announced—looked up, gestured him to the leather-bound seat on the near side of his leather-bound desk, and carried on writing. He was a stout man in denial, his black uniform just a little too tight for what it had to contain. He had a florid face, thinning hair and rather prominent red lips. He did have blue eyes, though, and his handwriting was exquisite. Russell watched the fountain pen scrape across the page, forming elegant whorls and loops from the dark green ink.

  After what seemed like several minutes, Kleist carefully replaced the pen in its holder, almost daintily blotted his work and, after one last admiring look, moved it to the right hand side of his desk. From the left he picked up a folder, opened it, and raised his eyes to Russell’s. “John Russell,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “You asked to see me,” Russell said, with as much bonhomie as he could muster.

  The Sturmbannführer ran a hand through his hair, straightening a few rebellious wisps with his fingers. “You are an English national.”

  “With resident status in the Reich.”

  “Yes, yes. I know. And a current journalistic accreditation.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could I see it please?”

  Russell removed it from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over.

  Kleist noticed the invitation card. “Ah, the opening,” he said. “A success, I assume. Were you impressed?”

  “Very much so. The building is a credit to the Führer.”

  Kleist looked sharply at Russell, as if doubtful of his sincerity.

  “So much modern architecture seems insubstantial,” Russell added.

  “Indeed,” Kleist agreed, handing back the press pass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in his seat, both hands grasping the edge of his desk. “Now, it has come to our attention that the Soviet newspaper Pravda has commissioned you to write a series of articles about the Fatherland.” He paused for a moment, as if daring Russell to ask how it had come to their attention. “This was at your suggestion, I believe.”

  “It was.”

  “Why did you suggest these articles, Mr. Russell?”

  Russell shrugged. “Several reasons. All freelance journalists are always looking to place stories with whoever will buy them. And it occurred to me that the Soviets might be interested in a fresh look at National Socialist Germany, one that concentrates on what the two societies have in common, rather than what divides them. What I—”

  Kleist stopped him with a raised hand. “Why did you think this would interest the Soviets?”

  Russell took his time. “Soviet propaganda has generally been very hostile toward the Reich,” he began. “And by taking this course, they have backed themselves into a corner. There’s no doubt that Germany is the rising power in Europe, and the Soviets—like everyone else—will sooner or later have to deal with that reality. But as things stand at the moment, their own people would not understand a more ... a more accommodating attitude toward the Reich. The articles I propose would prepare the ground, so to speak. They would help in restoring the Soviet government’s freedom of movement, allow them to act in concert with the Reich if and when the two states’ interests coincide.”

  Kleist looked thoughtful.

  “And I see such articles as a contribution to peace,” Russell went on, hoping he wasn’t over-egging the pudding. “I fought in the last war, and I have no desire to see another. If nations and governments understand each other, there’s less chance we’ll all blunder into one.”

  Kleist smiled. “I don’t think there’s much chance of the Führer blundering into anything,” he said. “But I take your point. And we have no objection to your articles, subject to certain conditions. These are sensitive subjects—I’m sure you’d agree. And while you are English, you are also living in the Reich under our protection. Your views would not be seen as official views, but they would be seen as views we are prepared to tolerate. You understand me? Whatever you write could be construed as having our blessing.”

  Russell felt anxious for the first time. “Yes. . . .” he said hesitantly.

  “So, you see, it follows that we cannot permit you to write anything that we violently disagree with. Your articles will have to be pre-submitted for our approval. I am sure,” he added, “that this will only be a formality.”

  Russell thought quickly. Should he at least recognize the implied dismissal of his journalistic integrity, or just play the cynic? He opted for the practical approach. “This is unusual, but I see your point,” he said. “And I have no objection, provided that your office can approve—or disapprove—the articles quickly. The first one is due in a couple of weeks, and at fortnightly intervals afte
r that—so, a couple of days. . . .”

  “That will not be a problem. Nothing gathers dust here.”

  Kleist looked pleased, and Russell had the sudden realization that the SD were as eager to see these articles as Shchepkin and his people. He decided to go for broke. “Sturmbannführer, could I make a request? In order to write these articles I shall need to travel a great deal around the Reich, and talk to a lot of people. I shall be asking them questions which they may find suspicious, coming, as they will, from a foreigner. A letter from this office confirming my credentials, and stating that I have permission to ask such questions, would be very useful. It would save a lot of time talking to local officials, and might help me avoid all sorts of time-consuming difficulties.”

  Kleist looked momentarily off-balance—this was not in his script—but he soon recovered. He scratched his cheek and rearranged his hair again before answering. “That seems a reasonable request,” he said, “but I’ll have to consult with my superiors before issuing such a letter.” He looked down at his pen, as if imagining the pleasure of writing it out.

  “Is there anything else?” Russell asked.

  “Just one thing. Your business with the Soviets—you are conducting it by post, I presume?”

  “So far,” Russell agreed, hoping to God that Kleist knew nothing of his meeting with Shchepkin. “Though of course I may have to use the phone or the wire service at some point.”

  “Mm. Let me be frank with you, Mr. Russell. If, in the course of your dealings with the Soviets, you learn anything of their intentions, their capabilities, we would expect you to pass such information on.”

  “You’re asking me to spy for you?”

  “No, not as such. Mr. Russell, you’ve lived in Germany for many years. . . .”

  “Almost fourteen.”

  “Exactly. Your son is a German boy, a proud member of the Hitler Youth, I believe.”

  “He is.”

  “So presumably you feel a certain loyalty to the Reich.”

  “I feel affection, and gratitude. I am not a great believer in loyalty to countries or governments.”

  “Ah, you were a communist once, I believe.”

  “Yes, but so was Mussolini. A lot of people were in the early Nineteen-twenties. Like Mussolini, I got over it. My loyalty or lack of it. . . . Sturmbannführer, what would you think of a German who, after a decade spent in England, proclaimed his loyalty to the English King? I suspect you would consider him a traitor to the Fatherland.”

  “I. . . .”

  “I have a German son,” Russell ploughed on. “I have an American mother, and I had an English father. I was brought up in England. Insofar as I am able, I am loyal to all three countries.”

  “But not to the Soviets?”

  “No.”

  “So if a Soviet contact told you of a threat to the Reich, you would not keep it to yourself.”

  “I would not.”

  “Very well. Then I think our business is concluded.” Kleist stood up and offered his hand across the desk. “If you get the articles to me, either by hand or post, I will guarantee to return them within twenty-four hours. Will that suffice?”

  “It will.”

  “Then good day to you. Fraulein Lange will see you back to the entrance.”

  She did. Russell followed the clicking heels once more, picked up his coat from the smiling receptionist, and found himself out on the Wilhelmstrasse pavement. It was dark. In more ways than one.

  TUESDAY WAS CLEAR AND COLD. Walking down to the U-bahn at Hallesches Tor, Russell was more conscious of the icy wind from the east than any theoretical warmth from the sun. At the studio in Neukölln he waited while Zembski shouted at someone through the phone, and then persuaded the Silesian to develop his film that day. Back at the U-bahn station he bought the Tageblatt and Allgemeine Zeitung at a kiosk and skimmed through their accounts of the Chancellery opening as he waited for a train. As far as he could tell, he’d seen all there was to see.

  The only other items of interest were the imminent departure of Reichsbank President Schacht, the Danzig stamp row—which had finally reached the German nationals—and the unsurprising news that US government spokesmen were less than impressed by the Nazis’ latest idea of sending all the Jews to either Manchuria or Alaska.

  Back at Neuenburgerstrasse Russell settled down to work. If you had a green light from the SD, he noted cynically, it probably paid to get moving. First off, he needed a list of topics for Pravda. What was so great about Nazi Germany if you didn’t like flags and blood in the gutter? Full employment, for one. A national sense of well-being. Worker’s benefits, up to a point. Cheap organized leisure activities—sport, culture, travel. All these came at a cost, and only, needless to say, to Aryans, but there was something there. As an English advertising man had once told him, there had to be something in the product that was worth having.

  What else? Health care was pretty good for the curable. And transport—the rocket trains, the autobahns and the people’s car, the new flying-boats and aeroplanes. The Nazis loved modernity when it speeded things up or made them simpler, hated it when it complicated things, or made it harder for them to live in their medieval mind-set. Einstein being Jewish was most convenient.

  He could write something perceptive about Nazi Germany if he had the mind to, Russell thought. Unfortunately. . . .

  He could write these articles in his sleep. Or almost. The Soviets liked lots of statistics—something they shared with the Nazis—and that would involve a little work. But not much. Shchepkin’s oral reports on the other hand. . . .

  He’d been trying not to think about them. Kleist’s question about other contacts had also been intended as a warning—he was sure of that. And the Soviets expected him to meet one of their agents outside Germany once a month. Which would no doubt make things safer for the agent, but how was he supposed to explain this new and oddly regular penchant for foreign travel? Could he refuse this part of the Soviet job? He suspected not. He wasn’t sure how the Soviets would make any hard feelings felt, but he was sure they’d manage it somehow.

  Nor did he feel that happy about wandering round Germany asking questions, even if Kleist did come up with some sort of protective letter. He supposed he could invent any number of imaginary responses—how, after all, could the Soviets check up on him? Then again, who knew what was left of the communist network in Germany? And in any case, part of him liked the idea of finding out what ordinary Germans were feeling in Year Six of Hitler’s thousand.

  That was it, he thought. “Ordinary Germans.” The British and American tabloids liked series: The Daily Mail was currently doing one on “European Troublespots”—he’d read No. 4 (“Memel—Europe’s Nagging Tooth”) the previous week. He could do something similar about ordinary Germans. The Worker. The Housewife. The Sailor, the Doctor, the Schoolboy. Whatever, as Slaney would say. Interviewing them would provide the ideal cover for gathering the information Shchepkin wanted.

  And the trips abroad? It was obvious—“Germany’s Neighbours.” Another series, this one looking at how people in the neighboring countries viewed Germany. He could travel all he wanted, talk to all the foreigners he wanted, without arousing suspicion. In Poland, Denmark, Holland, France, and what was left of Czechoslovakia. He could take Effi to Paris, visit his cousin Rainer in Budapest. He leaned back in his chair feeling pleased with himself. These two series would make him safer and richer. Things were looking up.

  THE FEELING OF WELL-BEING lasted until the next day. After posting off his text and photos of the Chancellery opening he traveled across town to the University, where Julius Streicher was inaugurating the new chair. It wasn’t, as Normanton had mischievously claimed, actually called the Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda, but it might have been. There was no sign of Streicher’s famous bullwhip, but his veins bulged just the way Russell remembered. The Nazi angrily denied the claim that National Socialism had put fetters on science or research. Restrictions, he insisted, had only been placed on the unruly. In fact, decency and sincerity had only obtained their freedom under Nat
ional Socialism.

  He had been ranting for an hour and a half when Russell left, and looked set for many hours more. Coming away, Russell knew what Normanton had meant about Mad Hatter material but, for once in his life, he felt more emotionally in tune with McKinley’s simple disgust. Perhaps it was the fact that his next port of call was the Wiesners.

  He picked up a Daily Mail while changing trams in Alexanderplatz and went through it with the two girls. They pored over the fashion pictures and ads, puzzled over the headline MAN WHO SLAPPED WOMAN MAYOR SAYS ‘I’M ASTOUNDED,’ and objected to the one which claimed ALL WOMEN ARE MAGPIES. A photograph of the King of Egypt out duck-shooting reduced Ruth to such a fit of giggles that her mother came out to see what was happening.

  After the lesson she brought out the best coffee and cake Russell had tasted for months, and thanked him profusely for all he was doing. Her husband was well, she said, but her face clouded over when he asked about Albert. He was “finding things difficult.” He had the feeling she thought about saying more but decided against it.

 

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