He knew why. A couple of weeks before Christmas Paul had told him about an exercise that new recruits into the Jungvolk were forced to undergo. They were taken out into the countryside without maps and invited to find their way back home the best they could. It was called a Fahrt ins Blau, a journey into the blue.
The idea had appealed to Paul, as it probably did to most boys of eleven. It appealed to Russell too. If he took this journey into the blue he might, conceivably, find his way home again.
He skimmed his last stone, a large one that took a single bounce and sunk. The sparse daylight was receding. The freighter and the Hela Peninsula had both been sucked into gray, and the beam from the lighthouse was sending shivers of reflection back off the darkening sea. He was in the middle of nowhere, lost in space. With ice for feet.
THE TWO POSTMASTERS WERE both short-sighted men in sober suits with small mustaches. The Polish one could hardly wait for the honor of distributing his new stamps. A minion was sent for samples, and came back with King Jagiello and Queen Hedwig. The Polish queen, the postmaster explained, had spurned a German prince in favour of marrying the Lithuanian Jagiello. Their joint kingdom had forced the Prussians to accept the first Polish Corridor and bi-national status for Danzig. Admittedly this had all happened in the early fif-teenth century butand here the postmaster leaned back in his chair with a self-satisfied smilethe contemporary relevance should be obvious. Even to a German.
The German postmaster had his own sample. His stamp featured a beautiful miniature of stout Danzigers routing the Polish forces of King Stefan Batory in 1577. A German city defended by German arms, he announced smugly. Russell repeated the question he had put to the Polish postmasterwerent these stamps a little provocative? Shouldn't the civil authorities be trying to reduce the tension between their two countries, rather than using their stamps to stoke up old quarrels?
The German postmaster gave the same reply as his Polish opposite number. How, he asked, could anyone take postage stamps that seriously?
RUSSELLS TRAIN LEFT THE Hauptbahnhof at ten oclock. After paying for a sleeping berth he could barely afford, he sat in the restaurant car for the better part of two hours, nursing a single gold-flecked schnapps, feeling restless and uncertain. The Polish customs officials checked his visa just before Dirschau and the German authorities examined his passport at Flatow, on the far side of the Polish Corridor. He had no trouble with the latter: If the Danzig SA were submitting a report on his visit they must have still been struggling with their spelling.
He thought about the kindertransport, wondered where it was at that moment. Still chugging west across Germany, most likely. The Englishwomans cheek would be purple by nowhe hoped she would go to the press when she got back and make a real stink. Not that it would do any good. It had taken her five minutes to learn what Nazism was all about, but there was no substitute for first-hand experience. If you told people they didn't believe you. No one, their eyes always said, could be as bad as that.
He walked back down the train to his sleeping compartment. The two lower berths were empty, one of the upper occupied by a gently snoring German youth. Russell sat on the opposite lower berth, pulled back the edge of the curtain, and stared out at the frozen fields of Pomerania.
He lay back and shut his eyes. Gisela Kluger looked back at him.
He would write Shchepkins articles. See where the journey took him. Into the blue. Or into the black.
Ha! Ho! He!
RUSSELLS TRAIN STEAMED ACROSS the bridge over Friedrichstrasse and into the station of the same name just before eight in the morning. An eastbound Stadtbahn train was disgorging its morning load on the other side of the island platform, and he stood behind the stairwell waiting for the crowd to clear. On the other side of the tracks an angry local was shaking a toasted almond machine in the vain hope that his coin would be returned. A railway official intervened and the two men stood there shouting at each other.
Welcome to Berlin, Russell thought.
He took the steps down to the underground concourse, bought a newspaper at the waiting room kiosk, and found himself a seat in the station buffet. The sight of his neighbor, a stout man in an Orpo uniform, cramming his mouth with large slices of blood sausage, did nothing for Russells appetite, and he settled for a buttered roll and four-fruit jam with his large milky coffee.
His newspaper shielded him from the blood sausage eater, but not from Nazi reality. He dutifully read Goebbelss latest speech on the vibrancy of modern German culture, but there was nothing new in it. More anti-Jewish laws had come into force on the first: Driving automobiles, working in retail, and making craft goods had all been added to the verboten list. Russell wondered what was left. Emigration, he supposed. So why make it so hard for the poor bastards to leave?
He skimmed through the rest. More villages judenfrei, more kilometers of autobahn, more indignation about Polish behavior in the Corridor. A new U-boat epic at the cinema, children collecting old tin cans for Winter Relief, a new recipe for the monthly one-pot-stew. A Reich that will last a thousand years. Six down, nine hundred and ninety-four to go.
He thought about taking the U-bahn but decided he needed some exercise. Emerging onto Friedrichstrasse he found the remains of the last snowfall dribbling into the gutters. A ribbon of pale sunlight was inching down the upper walls on the eastern side of the street, but the street itself was still sunk in shadows. Little knots of people were gathered at the doors of about-to-open shops, many of them talking in that loud, insistent manner which non-Berliners found so annoying in the capitals inhabitants.
It was a three kilometer walk to his rooms near Hallesches Tor. He crossed Unter den Linden by the Cafe Bauer, and strode south through the financial district, toward the bridge which carried the elevated U-bahn over Mohrenstrasse. Berlin was not a beautiful city, but the rows of gray stone buildings had a solidity, a dependability, about them.
On one corner of Leipzigerstrasse a frankfurter stall was gushing steam into the air, on another the astrologer whom Effi sometimes consulted was busy erecting his canvas booth. The man claimed hed prepared a chart for Hitler in pre-Fuhrer days, but refused to divulge what was in it. Nothing good, Russell suspected.
Another kilometer and he was turning off Friedrichstrasse, cutting through the side streets to Neuenburgerstrasse and his apartment block. Walking south from Leipzigerstrasse was like walking down a ladder of social class, and the area in which he lived was still hoping for a visit from the twentieth century. Most of the apartment blocks were five storeys high, and each pair boasted a high brick archway leading into a dark well of a courtyard. A bedraggled birch tree stood in his, still clinging to its mantle of snow.
The concierges door was open, light spilling into the dark lobby. Russell knocked, and Frau Heidegger emerged almost instantly, her frown turning to a smile when she saw who it was. Herr Russell! You said you would be back yesterday. We were beginning to worry.
I tried to telephone, he lied. But. . . .
Ah, the Poles, Frau Heidegger said resignedly, as if nothing better could be expected from her neighbors to the east. She wiped her hands on her apron and ushered him in. Come, you must have a coffee.
Accepting was easier than refusing. He took the proffered seat in her living room and gazed about him as she re-heatedfor the last of heavens know how many timesher eternal pot of coffee. Her Advent wreath was still hanging from the light fixture along with its four gutted candles. On the walnut chest of drawers two packs of cards stood beside her precious Peoples Radio. It was Tuesday, Russell realized, the day Frau Heidegger and three of her counterparts from the nearby blocks played skat.
She came back with the coffee and a small pile of post. A postcard from Paul, a probable Christmas card from his mother in the US, a letter from his American agent, and a business letter with a Berlin postmark.
You had two telephone messages, the concierge said, looking down through her pince-nez at a small piece of paper. Your fianceeFrau Heidegger always
referred to Effi in that way, despite the fact that no prospective marriage had ever been mentionedsays she will be back extremely late on Thursday night and will meet you at the Cafe Uhlandeck at noon on Friday. Does that sound right?
Yes.
And a Herr Conwayyes?he would like you to call him as soon as possible.
Ill call him after Ive had my coffee, Russell said, taking a first exploratory sip. It was burned, but so strong and sweet that you hardly noticed.
Frau Heidegger was telling him how shed recently caught one of the tenantsthe Sudeten German on the first floor who Russell hardly knewopening a window. This was strictly forbidden when the heating was on, and the tenant had only been forgiven on the grounds that he came from the mountains and could hardly be expected to know any better. He didn't know how lucky he was, Russell thought; his own rooms on the fourth floor sometimes resembled neighboring ovens. During one warm week in December he had regularly set his alarm for 3:00 AM, when the concierge was fairly certain to be asleep and he could throw open his windows for a life-saving blast of cool air.
He took another sip of coffee and wondered whether the war minister would be interested in developing it as a weapon. Thank you, Frau Heidegger, he said, carefully replacing the cup in its saucer and getting to his feet. I already had two cups at the station, he added in excuse.
Its good to have you back, she said, following him to the door. She didn't close it, though. She might miss something.
Russell walked over to the telephone at the foot of the stairs. Its installation a couple of years earlier had given Frau Heidegger cause for prideher block was leading the way on Neuenburgerstrasse. But it had soon turned into something of a mixed blessing. A popular propensity for ringing at all times of the day and night had necessitated the introduction of a curfew, and the phone was now off the hook from ten at night till eight in the morning. It could still be used for outgoing calls during that time, but heaven help anyone who forgot to take it off again.
He unhooked the earpiece and dialed the British embassys number. Doug Conway worked in the commercial department, or so he claimed. Russell had met him at the Blau-Weiss club, where English-speaking expatriates played tennis, talked about how beastly their German hosts were, and lamented the lack of reliable domestic help. Russell hated the place, but time spent there was often good for business. As a journalist he had made a lot of useful contacts; as a part-time English tutor he had been pointed in the direction of several clients. He hoped Doug Conway had found him another.
Im rushed off my feet today, Conway told him. But I can squeeze in an early lunch. Wertheim at 12:30?
Fine, Russell agreed, and started up the four flights of stairs which led to his rooms. At the top he paused for breath before unlocking the door and wondered for the umpteenth time about moving to a block with a lift. His rooms were stuffy and hot, so he left the front door ajar and risked opening a window by a few millimeters.
Stretched out on the threadbare sofa, he went through his mail. Pauls postcard began Dear Dad, but seemed mostly concerned with the Christmas presents hed received from his stepfather. The boy did say he was looking forward to the football game on Saturday, though, and Russell took another look out of the window to convince himself that the weather was warming up and that the game would be played.
The envelope from America was indeed a Christmas card from his mother. It contained one cryptic line: This might be a good year to visit me. She was probably referring to the situation in Europe, although for all Russell knew she might have contracted an incurable disease. She certainly wouldn't tell him if she had.
He opened the business letters. The one from his American agent contained a check for $53.27, payment for an article on Strength Through Joy cruises which a dozen US papers had taken. That was the good news. The Berlin letter was a final, rather abusively written demand for payment on a typewriter repair bill, which would account for more than half the dollar inflow.
Looking round the room at the all-too-familiar furniture and yellowing white walls, at the poster from Effis first film, the tired collage of photographs, and the dusty overloaded bookshelves, he felt a wave of depression wash over him.
THE CITYS LARGEST WERTHEIM department store occupied a site twice the size of the late-lamented Reichstag, and a frontage running to 330 meters. Inside, it boasted 83 lifts, 100,000 light bulbs and 1,000 telephone extensions. Russell knew all this because he had written an article on the store a year or so earlier. More to the point, the restaurant offered good food and service at a very reasonable rate, and it was only a five-minute walk from the British embassy on Wilhelmstrasse.
Doug Conway had already secured a table, and was halfway through a gin and tonic. A tall man of around 35 with sleek blond hair and bright blue eyes, he looked custom-made for Nazi Berlin, but was in fact a fairly decent representative of the human race. State-educated and low-born by embassy standardshis father had been a parks superintendent in Leedshe had arrived in Berlin just as the Nazis seized power. His pretty young wife Mary was probably brighter than he was, and had once confided in Russell that she intended to torch the Blau-Weiss Club before she left Berlin.
Conways taste in food had not traveled far from his roots. He looked pained when Russell ordered the pigs knuckle and sauerkraut, and plumped for the pot roast and mash.
Ive got some teaching work for you if you want it, he told Russell while they waited. Its a Jewish family called Wiesner. The father iswasa doctor. His wife is ill most of the time, though I dont know what withworry, most likely. Their son was taken off to Sachsenhausen after Kristallnacht and hasnt been seen since, though the family have heard that hes still alive. And there are two daughters, Ruth and Marthe, who are both in their teensthirteen and fifteen, or something like that. Its them youd be teaching.
Russell must have looked doubtful.
Youd be doing me a real favor if you took them on, Conway persisted. Felix Wiesner probably saved Phylliss lifethis was back in 1934there were complications with the birth and we couldn't have had a better doctor. He wasnt just efficient; he went out of his way to be helpful. And now he cant practice, of course. I dont know what he intends to doI dont know what any of them can dobut hes obviously hoping to get his daughters to England or the States, and he probably thinks theyll have a better chance if they speak English. I have no idea what his money situation is, Im afraid. If he cant earn, and theres all the new taxes to pay . . . well. . . . But if he cant pay your normal rate then Ill top up whatever he can afford. Just dont tell him Im doing it.
He might like the idea that somebody cares, Russell said.
I dont know about. . . .
Ill go and see him.
Conway smiled. I hoped youd say that. He pulled a folded piece of paper out of his inside pocket and passed it across the table. Heres his address.
It was in Friedrichshain, hardly a normal stomping ground for high-class Jewish doctors.
He used to live in Lutzow, Conway explained. Now theyre all hunkering down together in the poorest areas. Like medieval ghettos.
The food arrived and they ate in silence for a couple of minutes, before exchanging news of their children and the German schools they were attending. Conway and his wife had also seen Effis musical, and clearly wished they hadn't, though Conway was much too diplomatic to actually say so.
Over coffee Russell asked how the Embassy saw the next few months.
Off the record?
Off the record.
Were on a knife-edge. If our mustachioed chum is happy with what hes got, then fine. The appeasers will say I told you sohe may be a nasty little shit, but he can be managed. But if he goes after moreDanzig or the Corridor or the rest of Czechoslovakiathen Churchill and his pals will be the ones saying, I told you so. And therell be a war.
Doug, how do you persuade the British people that the Czechs werent worth fighting for, but the Poles are? The Czechs have a functioning democracy of sorts. The Poles would be just like this lot if they had any
talent for organization.
Conway grimaced. Thatll be up to the politicians. But Ill tell you what Londons really worried about. If Hitler does behave for a few years, and if he keeps building tanks, U-boats and bombers at the current rate, then by Forty-one or Forty-two hell be unstoppable. Thats the real nightmare. As far as were concernedfrom a purely military point of viewthe sooner the better.
THERE WAS NO TELEPHONE at the Wiesners but, as Conway had noted, the doctor didn't have much to go out for. No U-bahn had been built out into the working class wastes of Friedrichshain, so Russell took a 13 tram from the Brandenburg Gate to Spittelmarkt and a 60 from there to Alexanderplatz and up Neue Konigstrasse. The city deteriorated with each passing kilometer, and by the time he reached his destination most of it seemed to be on sale. The sidewalk was lined with makeshift tables, all piled high with belongings that would-be Jewish emigrants were trying to shift. The complete works of Dickens in German were on sale for a few Reichsmarks, a fine-looking violin for only a little more.
The Wiesners block made his own seem middle class. The street was cobbled, the walls plastered with advertisements for auctions and lists of items for sale. On the pavement a group of painfully thin young girls were hopping their way through a game of Heaven and Earth on a chalkmarked grid. In the courtyard of the Wiesners building the far wall still bore the faintest outline of a large hammer and sickle and the much-faded slogan ERST ESSEN, DANN MIETfirst food, then rent.
The Wiesners shared two overcrowded rooms on the second floor. Contrary to Conways expectation, the doctor was out. He was only attending to a neighbor, however, and the older of the two daughters was sent to fetch him, leaving Russell, Frau Wiesner, and her younger daughter to exchange small talk. Frau Wiesner, a small woman with tied-back blond hair and tired gray eyes, looked anything but Jewish, while her younger daughter Ruth bore a striking resemblance to Effi, both physically and, Russell judged, temperamentally. Effi had often been mistaken for a Jew, and various employers had insisted she carry the fragebogen, which testified to her Aryan descent, at all times. She of course liked nothing better than shoving the mistake back in peoples faces.
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