Zoo Stationee

Zoo Stationee Page 12

by David Downing

  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 CAFÉ 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 eventu
ally 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 Sturmbannführer 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 Sturmbannführer 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 décor 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 émigré 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 alway
s 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.”

 

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