Zoo Station jr-1

by David Downing

  Dr. Wiesner appeared after a few minutes, looking decidedly harassed. His wife and two daughters abruptly withdrew to the next room and closed the door behind them.

  He was about fifty, Russell guessed, and aging fast. He ran a hand through his thinning hair and got straight down to businessas Conway had said, he hoped to get his daughters away to relations in England. He was working on getting them visas and exit permits, and in the meantime he wanted them to learn English. I speak a little, he said in that language, and I will try and help them, but they need a proper teacher.

  I have taught around twenty German children, Russell said.

  Wiesner grunted. German children, he repeated. Im afraid my children are no longer considered German.

  Russell said nothing.

  You are wondering why we stayed, Wiesner said. I ask myself the same thing every day and I have many answers, but none of them is worth anything. My wife is not Jewish, he added, so my children are only half-Jewish, or mischlings as the Nazis call them, but I thought perhaps. . . . Well, I was a fool. He reached behind himself and plucked a piece of paper from a shelf-full of music. It was, of all things, a page of Der Sturmer. Listen to this, the doctor said, adjusting his glasses on his nose and holding the page almost at arms length. Even if a Jew slept with an Aryan woman once, the membranes of her vagina would be so impregnated with alien semen that the woman would never again be able to bear pure blooded Aryans. He lowered the paper and looked at Russell. Who could believe such pre-scientific nonsense? It doesnt even make sense on their own illiterate termssurely the master race would have the all-powerful blood, not the people they despise. He saw something in Russells face. Im sorry. I dont know why I am telling you all this. Its just so hard to accept.

  I understand, Russell said.

  So why do you, an Englishman, stay in Germany? Wiesner asked him.

  Russell gave a short account of his situation.

  That is difficult, the doctor agreed. But good news for my daughters if you agree to teach them.

  How many lessons do you have in mind?

  As many as you can manage. And as often.

  Three times a week? Monday, Wednesday, Friday? Itll vary a bit. I cant do Friday this week, but I could do Thursday.

  Whatever you say. Now for the difficult part. I have some money, but not very much. Andhere I must trust youI have some valuable stamps. I can show you the valuation in the current catalogue and add another ten percent.

  It was a nice idea, but Russell couldn't do it. The catalogue value will suit me fine.

  IT WAS ALMOST DARK when he emerged from the Wiesners block, and the tram rides home through the evening rush hour seemed endless. By the time he reached Hallesches Tor he was ready for supper, and his favourite beerhouse beneath the elevated U-bahn provided the necessary meatballs and potato pancakes. Over a second beer he decided not to sell any of Wiesners stamps unless he really needed to. He would give them to Paul, whose collection could do with some rarities.

  That was assuming his son would accept them. Paul was forever worrying about his fathers financial statean anxiety which Russell occasionally, and without much conviction, tried to blame on his ex-wife Ilse.

  He looked at his watch: He didn't have long to ring Paul before his bedtime. A U-bahn rattled into the station above as he emerged from the beerhouse, and a stream of people were soon pouring down the iron staircase, exhaling thick puffs of breath in the cold evening air. It was one of those Berlin days when the weather seemed uncertain what to do, one minute veering toward a western warmth, the next favoring an eastern chill.

  Entering his street, he noticed what looked like an empty car parked across from his apartment block. This was unusualvery few people in the area could afford one. He thought about crossing the street to take a look inside but decided he was being paranoid. He hadn't done anything to upset the authorities. Not yet, anyway.

  A blast of hot air greeted him as he opened the outside doors of the apartment block. Frau Heideggers skat evening was in full swing, the volume of laughter suggesting a large consignment of empty bottles for the morning collection. Russell dialed the number of the house in Grunewald, put the earpiece to one ear and a finger in the other. As he half-expected, Ilse picked up. They asked each other the usual questions, gave the usual answers, all with the faint awkwardness which they never seemed able to shake. The family had just gotten back from Hanover, and when Paul came on he was full of the wonders of the autobahn and his stepfathers new Horch 830 Bl. As far as Saturday was concerned, his usual school lessons had been replaced by Jungvolk meetings, and these ran until one oclock. Muti says you can pick me up then.

  Right. Effi would be pleased, Russell thought. He wouldn't have to leave while she was still fast asleep.

  And were still going to the Viktoria match?

  Of course. I expect Uncle Thomas and Joachim will come too.

  They chatted for another couple of minutes, before Ilses voice in the background decreed that time was up. Russell said good night and, feeling the usual mixture of elation and frustration, started up the stairs.

  He was waylaid on the third floor landing by the other resident journalist in the building, a young American named Tyler McKinley. I thought I heard your weary tread, the American said in English. Come in for a minute. I want to ask you something.

  It seemed simpler to say yes than no. McKinleys room wasnt particularly warmlike the other residents he knew that skat night was a chance to freshen the airbut it was full of pipe-smoke from the atrocious Balkan mixture he had adopted during a weekend trip to Trieste.

  How was Danzig? his host asked, though Russell could see he was bursting with stuff of his own to talk about. There was something lovable about McKinley, but also something profoundly irritating. Russell hoped that this wasnt just because McKinley, with his quasi-religious belief in crusading journalism, reminded him of himself in long-gone days. That was the trouble with the youngtheir stupidities brought back ones own.

  Interesting, he answered, though it had been anything but in the way that McKinley meant. He considered telling him about the stamp wars, but could imagine the look of incomprehension and vague derision which that would elicit.

  The younger man was already back in Berlin. Im chasing a really interesting story, he said. I dont want to say anything yet, he hastened to add, but . . . do you know anything about the KdF, the Kanzlei des Fuhrers?

  Its the great mans private chancellery.

  Is it a government office?

  No, its a Party office, but an independent one. Theres no connection to Bormanns bunch in Munich.

  McKinley looked excited. So who is it connected to?

  Russell shrugged. Nobody. It reports directly to Hitler as far as I know.

  So if he wanted to do something on the quiet, it would be the ideal instrument.

  Uh-huh.

  McKinley beamed, as if hed just awarded himself a gold star.

  You want to tell me what youre talking about? Russell asked, interested in spite of himself.

  Not yet, the American said, but he couldn't resist one more question. Does the name Knauer mean anything to you?

  A fullback with Tennis Borussia a few years back?

  What? Oh, a soccer player. No, I dont think so. He reached for a lighter to re-start his pipe. But thanks for your help.

  Youre welcome, Russell said, and resumed his ascent.

  His room was sweltering, but mercifully smoke-free. Guessing that the skat game still had a couple of hours to run, he threw one window wide and gazed out across the rooftops. In the far distance the red light atop the Funkturm winked above the roofscape.

  He sat down at the typewriter, inserted a sheet of paper, and reminded himself that the letter he was about to write wasas far as the Soviets were concernedjust a long-winded way of saying yes. His real audience was the Gestapo.

  Play the innocent, he thought. The Gestapo would think he was trying to fool the Soviets, and assume he was just being cynical.r />
  He began by asserting the happy coincidence that National Socialism and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had one crucial word in commonsocialism. That should give them both a laugh, he thought. They might seem like enemies, he continued, but clearly they had something important in commonsocialisms determination to serve all the people. What could serve the people better than peace? And what served peace better than mutual understanding? If the Soviet people were offered, in a series of articles, a clearer idea of how much National Socialism had achieved for ordinary German people, then the chances of peace were bound to be enhanced. As an Englishman with a long experience of Germany he was ideally placed to explain it to foreigners. And he had a strong personal reason for desiring peaceif war came, he added pathetically, he and his German-born son might be separated for years and years. Here I am, he murmured to himself, a propaganda tool for the taking. The Gestapo would lap it up.

  He copied the address from Shchepkins note onto an envelope, unearthed a stamp from the table drawer, and perched the completed missive on his typewriter. Hearing the sounds of departing concierges floating up from the courtyard he made a dive for the window and pulled it shut.

  Bed, he thought. The bathroom on the floor below which he shared with McKinley and two other mena stationery rep from Hamburg and a waiter from the Harz Mountainswas empty for once, though the strong smell of McKinleys pipe smoke suggested a lengthy occupation earlier that evening. There was still light under the Americans door, and Russell could hear the soft clicking of his typewriterthe newer machines were much quieter than his own antique.

  Back in bed, he re-read Pauls postcard and resumed reading the detective novel he had forgotten to take to Danzig. Unable to remember who anyone was, he turned out the light and listened to the muffled hum of the traffic on nearby Lindenstrasse. The Fuhrer was probably allowed to sleep with his windows open.

  HE SPENT THE NEXT two days looking after business. Wednesday and Thursday morning, he made the long trek out to Friedrichshain for two 90-minute sessions with the Wiesner girls. The elder daughter Marthe was a bit shy at first, but Ruths enthusiasm proved infectious enough to bring her out. The two of them knew very little English, but they were a joy to teach, eager to learn and markedly more intelligent than the spoiled daughters of Grunewald and Wilmersdorf whom Russell had taught in the past.

  This was on the Wednesdaythe following day both girls looked as though theyd seen a ghost, and Russell wondered whether theyd had bad news from Sachsenhausen. When he asked if they were all right, he thought Marthe was going to cry, but she took a visible grip on herself and explained that her brother had come home the previous evening.

  But thats wonderful. . . . Russell began.

  He doesnt seem like Albert, Ruth broke in, looking over her shoulder at the door through to the other rooms. He has no hair, and he doesnt say anything, she whispered.

  He will, Marthe told her sister, putting an arm round her. Hes just seen some terrible things, but he hasnt been hurt, not really. Now come on, we have to learn English. For everyones sake.

  And they did, faster than any pupils Russell could remember. Neither mother nor brother emerged from the other rooms, and Doctor Wiesner was out on both days. On the Thursday he left Russell a small amount of marks and three stamps in an envelope on top of the latest Stanley Gibbons catalogue from England. Russell didn't bother to check the listings.

  Wednesday afternoon, he had typed out the stamp wars article and stuck two copies in the red air mail box by the Hotel Bristol entrance on Unter den Linden. Thursday morning, a telegram arrived from his London agent pointing out the need for exclusive photographs with his piece on Hitlers new Chancellery, and that afternoon Russell dragged himself out to a photographic studio in the wilds of Neukolln, only to discover that the photographer in question, a Silesian named Zembski whom hed used in the past, had just lost his official accreditation after starting a brawl at one of Goerings hunting parties. Zembski weighed over 200 pounds, and could hardly be smuggled into the Fuhrers new insult to architecture, but he did prove willing to rent out one of his better cameras. After a short instruction course Russell carried the Leica back to Hallesches Tor.

  Frau Heidegger was waiting for himor anyonein the lobby. Her husband had been killed in the last warYou might have been the one who shot him, she frequently told Russelland his brother had just been round to see her, full of useful information about the next one. She had assumed it would take place at some distance from her door, but this illusion had been cruelly shattered. Cities will be bombed flat, her brother-in-law had told her, flat as ironing boards.

  Russell told her that, yes, English or French or Russian bombers could now reach Berlin, but that most of them would be shot down if they tried, because air defenses were improving all the time. She didn't look convinced, but then neither was he. How many Europeans, he wondered, had any idea what kind of war they were headed for?

  FRIDAY MORNING WAS SUNNY and cold. After a late breakfast of rolls and coffee at a local cafe, Russell walked west along the Landwehrkanal. He wasnt due to meet Effi for a couple of hours, so he took his time, stopping to read his morning paper on a bench near the double-decker bridges which carried the U-bahn and Reichsbahn lines over the torpid brown water. Coal-laden barges chugged by, leaving thin trails of oil in their wake.

  He walked on for another kilometer or so, leaving the canal where it passed under Potsdamerstrasse. Almost exactly twenty years earlier, the bodies of Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht had been fished out of waters close to this spot. The empty site on the other side of the road had been home to a synagogue until the previous November. Rosa, of course, had been everything the Nazis despiseda Jew, a communist, a woman who refused to stay home and rear children. Russell was surprised that no official celebration had been decreed for the anniversary of her death.

  Cutting through side streets, he eventually reached the domed Ubahn station at Nollerndorfplatz, and started walking up Kleiststrasse toward the distant spires of the Kaiser Memorial church. As the Ubahn tracks beside him slid slowly underground, the shops grew progressively larger and richer, the awnings of the pavement cafes more decorative. Despite the cold, most of the outside seats were occupied; men and women sat in their overcoats, or tightly wrapped in large blankets, chewing their cream cakes and sipping at their steaming coffees.

  Both sidewalks and road were crowded now. Shoppers streamed in and out of the KaDeWe department store on Wittenbergplatz, cars and trams ran bumper to bumper on the narrower Tauenzienstrasse, jostling each other round the neo-Gothic Memorial Church, with its distressingly secular mosaics celebrating the highly dubious glories of past German emperors. Walking past it, and thinking about his conversation with Frau Heidegger, Russell had a sudden mental picture of jagged spires looming out of a broken roof, a future Berlin pre-figured in his memories of northern France.

  He started up the busy Kurfurstendamm, or the Kudamm, as everyone called it. The Cafe Uhlandeck, where he was supposed to meet Effi, was a ten minute stroll away, and he still had half an hour to spare. An African parrot in a pet shop caught his attention: It was the sort of birthday present Effi would love, but he doubted her ability to look after it properly. For one thing she was away too often. For another, she was Effi.

  A woman in a fur coat emerged from the shop with two pedigree schnauzers in tow. Both had enamel swastikas fastened to their collars, and Russell wondered whether they had pictures of the Fuhrer pinned up inside their kennels. Would that be considered a sign of respect, or the lack of such? Political etiquette in the Third Reich was something of a minefield.

  He passed the aryanized Grunfeld factory, and the site of another destroyed synagogue. A photographic album of such sites would be a best-seller in Nazi Germany: Judenfrei: The Photographic Record. Page after page of burned synagogues, followed by then and now pictures of aryanized firms. A forward by the Fuhrer, which would probably turn out to be longer than the book. The lucky author would probably get invite
s to Goerings hunting weekends and Streichers whipping orgies.

  Russell stopped and watched a tram cross the intersection, bell clanging. Why was he feeling so angry this morning? Was it the kindertransport and the Wiesner girls? Or just six years of accumulated disgust? Whatever it was, it served no purpose.

  Reaching the Cafe Uhlandeck he sat at one of the outside tables and stared back down the Kudamm in search of Effis familiar silhouette. He had met her a few days before Christmas 1933, while researching a piece on Leni Riefenstahl for a Hollywood gossip magazine. At a studio party someone had pointed out a slim, black-haired woman in her late twenties, told Russell that her name was Effi Koenen, and that she had appeared alongside Riefenstahl when the latter was still acting in films, rather than directing them.

  Effis part in that film, as she was only too happy to inform him, had consisted of five lines, two smiles, one pout, and a dignified exit. She had thought Riefenstahl a good actress, but had hated Triumph of the Will for its humorlessness. Russell had asked her out to dinner, and rather to his astonishment she had accepted. They had got on like a house on firein the restaurant, on the half-drunken walk home to her flat, in her large soft bed. Five years later, they still did.

  The flat was a couple of blocks north of the Kudamm, a three room affair which her wealthy parents had bought in the early 1920s from a victim of the Great Inflation, and given to her as a twenty-fifth birthday present. Her acting career had been reasonably successfula film here, a play there, a musical if nothing else was on offerwithout making her rich or particularly famous. She was occasionally recognized on the street when Russell was with her, and almost always for the part she had played in a 1934 film, the wife of a stormtrooper beaten to death by communists. That had been a seventeen lines, one smile, one scream, dignified-at-funeral part.