Effi ignored him. Are you going to throw these pigs out? she asked the manager.
He looked mortified. I. . . .
Very well. You wont get any more business from me. Or any of my friends. I hope, she concluded with one last contemptuous glance at the SS, that you can make a living selling swill to these pigs.
She headed for the door, as Russell, half-amused and half-fearful, counted out a few marks for their meal and listened to the SS men argue about whether to arrest her. When one of them took a step toward the door he blocked the way. You did call her a Jew, he said mildly, looking straight at the oldest man. Surely you can understand how upsetting that might be. She meant no disrespect.
The man gave him a slight bow of the head. She would do well to control her anger a little better, he said coldly.
She would, Russell agreed. Have a good evening, he added, and turned toward the door.
Outside he found Effi shaking with laughter, though whether from humor or hysteria he wasnt quite sure. He put an arm around her shoulder and waited for the shaking to stop. Lets go home.
Lets, she agreed.
They crossed the busy avenue and headed up one of the side streets.
Sometimes I wish I was a Jew, she said. If the Nazis hate them that much, they must be real human beings.
Russell grunted his acquiescence. I heard a joke the other day, he said. Hitler goes rowing on the Wannsee, but hes not very good at it, and manages to overturn the boat. A boy in a passing boat manages to haul him out and save him from drowning. Hitler, as you can imagine, is overcome with gratitude and promises the boy whatever he wants. The boy thinks for a moment, and asks for a state funeral. Hitler says, Youre a bit young for that, arent you? The boy says, Oh, mein Fuhrer, when I tell my dad Ive saved you from drowning hes going to kill me!
Effi started laughing again, and he did too. For what seemed like minutes they stood on the sidewalk, embracing and shaking with mirth.
NEXT AFTERNOON THOMAS AND JOACHIM were waiting in the usual place, sitting on a low wall with cartons of half-consumed frankfurters and kartoffelsalad between them. Russell bought the same for himself and Paul.
Once inside the Plumpe they headed for their usual spot, opposite the edge of the penalty area, halfway up the terrace on the western side. As their two sons read each others magazines, Russell and Thomas sat themselves down on the concrete step and chatted. Hows business? Russell asked.
Its good, Thomas said, unbuttoning his overcoat. Hed been running the family paper business since his and Ilses father had died a few years earlier. Its getting harder to find experienced staff, but other than that. . . . He shrugged. Theres no lack of orders. How about you?
Not too bad. Ive got the opening of the new Chancellery tomorrow, and there should be a decent piece in thatthe Americans like that sort of thing.
Well thats good. How about Danzig? Did you get anything there?
Not really. Russell explained about the stamp wars.
Thomas rolled his eyes in frustration. Like children, he muttered. Speaking of which, Joachims been called up for his arbeitsdienst.
When?
The beginning of March.
Russell looked up at Joachim, engrossed in his magazine. Ah, he said, glad that Paul was still six years away from the year of drilling, draining swamps, and digging roads which the Nazis imposed on all seventeen-year-old boys. How does he feel about it?
Oh, he cant wait, Thomas said, glancing affectionately up at his son. I suppose it cant do him any harm. Unlike whatll probably follow.
Russell knew what he meant. When theyd first become friends over ten years ago, he and Thomas had talked a lot about their experiences in the war. Both had friends whod survived the war in body, yet never recovered their peace of mind. And both knew that they themselves had been changed in ways that they would never fully understand. And that they had been the lucky ones.
Happy days, Russell murmured, and then laughed. We had a run-in with the SS last night, he said, and told Thomas the story.
He wasnt as amused as Russell expected. Shell go too far one of these days. The fragebogens just a piece of paper, after all. One day theyll take her in, tear it up, and the next thing you know her parents will be getting a bill for her burial. He shook his head. Being right doesnt count anymore.
I know, Russell said. She knows. But she does it so well.
A chorus of catcalls erupted around them: Viktoria Berlin were on their way out. As the two men got to their feet, Hertha emerged to a more affectionate welcome. Casting his eyes over the towering grandstand and the high crowded terraces behind each goal, Russell felt the usual surge of excitement. Glancing to his left, he saw that Pauls eyes mirrored his own.
The first half was all Hertha, but Viktoria scored the only goal on a breakaway just before the interval. Joachim seethed with indignation, while Paul yo-yoed between hope and anxiety. Thomas smoked two cigarettes.
The second half followed the same pattern, and there were only ten minutes left when Herthas inside-left was tripped in the penalty area. He took the penalty himself. The ball hit both posts before going in, leaving the crowd in hysterics. A minute from time, with evening falling and the light abruptly fading, Herthas center-forward raced onto a long bouncing ball and volleyed it home from almost thirty yards. The Viktoria goalkeeper hadn't moved. As the stadium exploded with joy he just stood there, making angry gestures at his teammates, the referee, the rest of the world.
Paul was ecstatic. Eyes shining, he joined in the chant now echoing round the arena: Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC! Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC!
For an eleven-year-old, Russell thought fondly, this was as good as it got.
IT WAS DARK BY the time he dropped Paul off. He took a 76 back into town, ate supper at a beer restaurant just off the Potsdamerplatz, and walked the last kilometer home. Reaching his street, he noticed what looked like the same empty car parked across from his apartment block. He was on his way to investigate it when he heard the scream.
It was no ordinary scream. It was loud and lingering, and it somehow managed to encompass surprise, terror, and appalling pain. For a brief instant, Russell was back in the trenches, listening to someone whod just lost a limb to a shell.
It came from further down the street.
He hesitated, but only long enough for his brain to register that hesitation as an essential corollary of living in Nazi Germany. All too often, screams meant officialdom, and experience suggested that officialdom was best avoided at such moments.
Still, investigating one seemed a legitimate practice, even in Nazi Germany. Not all crimes were committed by the state or its supporters. Russell walked resolutely on past the courtyard which his block shared with its neighbor, telling himself that valor was the better part of discretion.
The source of the disturbance was the further of the two blocks off the next courtyard. A couple of men were hovering in the entrance, obviously uncertain what to do. They eyed Russell nervously, and looked at each other when he asked them what was going on. Both were in their forties, and an obvious facial similarity suggested brothers.
In the courtyard beyond, an open-backed truck was parked with its engine running, and a single man in an SA uniform was walking toward them.
Keep moving, he told them, without any real conviction. His breath stank of beer.
But we live here, one of the two men said.
Just wait there, then, the stormtrooper said, looking up at the illuminated windows on the third floor. You might get some free entertainment, he added over his shoulder as he walked back toward the truck.
Seconds later, another bloodcurdling scream reverberated round the courtyard.
What in Gods name . . . ? Russell began. Who lives up there? he asked the two men.
Two actors, the older of the two replied.
Warmer bruder, the other added, hot brothers, the current slang for homosexuals. Theyve been brazen as hell. Someone must have denounced them. He didn't sound too upset abou
t it.
No other lights were showing in either block, but Russell could almost feel the silent audience watching from behind the tiers of darkened windows. He thought about calling the police, but knew there was no point.
One of the illuminated windows was suddenly flung open, and a man appeared silhouetted against the opening, looking out and down. A crying, whimpering sound was now audible, and just as the man disappeared another scream split the night, even more piercing than the last. There was a flurry of movement inside the lighted room, and suddenly a naked body was flying out through the window, dropping, screaming, hitting the floor of the courtyard with a sickening, silencing thud. The body twitched once and lay still, as desperate, sobbing pleas of no, please, no leaked out of the open window. Another flurry, another naked body, this one twisting in flight like an Olympic diver whod mistaken concrete for water. There was no twitch this time, no last-second adjustment to death.
The two lay a couple of feet apart, in the thin pool of light thrown by the blocks entrance lamp. One man was face down, the other face up, with only a glistening mess where his genitals had been.
With a shock, Russell recognized the mans face. Hed seen himtalked to him evenat one of Effis theatrical gatherings. He had no memory of the mans name, but hed been nice enough. With a passion for Hollywood movies, Russell remembered. Katherine Hepburn in particular.
Shows over, the SA man was saying loudly. You saw it. They must have cut each others pricks off before they jumped. He laughed. You can go in now, he added.
Russells two companions looked like they were in shock. One started to say something, but no sound emerged, and the other just gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. They walked toward their door, giving a wide birth to the two corpses.
And you? the SA man shouted at Russell.
I was just passing, he said automatically.
Then keep moving, the SA man ordered.
Russell obediently turned and walked away, his eyes still full of the mutilated bodies. The bile in his stomach wouldn't stay down. Supporting himself against a lamppost he retched his supper into the gutter, then leaned against a wall, brain swirling with the usual useless rage. Another crime that would never be punished, another story that begged to be told.
And would he risk losing his son to tell it? No, he wouldn't.
And was he ashamed of his silence? Yes, he was.
He levered himself off the wall and walked slowly on toward his own courtyard and block. As he reached the entrance he remembered the empty car. It was gone.
Inside, Frau Heidegger seemed, as usual, to be waiting for him. What was all that noise about? she asked, then noticed his face. Herr Russell, you look like youve seen a ghost!
The SA came for a couple of homosexuals in the next block, he said. There seemed no point in giving her the gory details.
Oh, she said, shaking her head in involuntary denial. I know the men you mean. They . . . well . . . its not our business, is it? She ducked back inside her door and re-emerged with an unstamped envelope. This came for you. A plainclothes policeman delivered it this morning.
He opened it. The Gestapo wished to see him. Within three days.
They just want a chat, he reassured her. Something to do with my accreditation, I expect.
Ah, she said, sounding less than completely convinced.
Russell shared her misgivings. As he climbed the stairs, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Theyd read his letter to the Soviets, and just wanted to clarify his intentions. If it was anything else, they wouldn't be delivering invitations and letting him pick the daytheyd be throwing him out of the window.
A frisson of fear shot across his chest, and his legs felt strangely unsteady. Suddenly the photographic book seemed like a very bad idea.
Ha ho bloody he, he muttered to himself.
The Knauer Boy
THE GESTAPOS INVITATION TO dance was still on Russells desk when he got up the following morning. One Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist was expecting to see John Russell in Room 48, 102 Wilhelmstrasse, within the next 72 hours. No explanation was offered.
It wasnt actually the Gestapo102 Wilhelmstrasse was the head-quarters of the Party intelligence organization, the Sicherheitsdienst. Though both were run by Reinhard Heydrich with a cheery disregard for legal niceties, the SD had a reputation for more sophisticated thuggerysame pain, cleaner floors.
He read the letter through again, looking for a more sinister message between the lines, and decided there was none. Shchepkin had said theyd want to talk to him, and they did. It was as simple as that. A friendly warning was waiting in Room 48, and nothing more. Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist would turn out to be a Hertha supporter, and they would chat about what had gone wrong this season.
Still, Russell thought as he shaved, there was no reason to hurry down there. He couldn't afford to miss the new Chancellery opening at noon, and there was no telling how long the various ceremonies would take. Tomorrow would do. Or even Wednesday.
Back in his room, he picked up the Leica and took a few imaginary photos. It had no flash, but Zembski had said the lens was good enough for indoor shooting as long as he held the camera steady. And he could always ask the Fuhrer for the loan of a shoulder.
Cheered by this thoughtfeeling, in fact, unreasonably buoyant for someone with an appointment at 102 Wilhelmstrassehe headed downstairs and out into the gray January morning. As if in response to his mood, a tram glided to a halt at the stop on Friedrichstrasse just as he reached it. Ten minutes later he was ensconced in a Cafe Kranzler window seat, enjoying a first sip of his breakfast coffee as he examined the morning papers.
Foreign Minister Ribbentrop had been talking to the visiting Polish leader, Colonel Becknow there were two men who deserved each other. The new battle cruiser Scharnhorst had been commissioned at Wilhelmshaven, complete with nine eleven-inch guns, two catapults, and three planes. The new captains main claim to fame was his shelling of a Spanish seaside town in 1937, while commanding the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer. On the home front, Pastor Martin Niemollers brother Wilhelm had delivered a sermon attacking government policy toward the churches. He had read a list from the pulpit of all those churchmenincluding his brothercurrently enjoying the states hospitality. The newspaper was not sure whether this constituted a crime: It has recently been established in certain cases, the editor wrote, that to read the names of persons in custody may itself be an offense.
On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: The taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.
Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show off the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Greco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.
Another coffee brought the time to 11:45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalists pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.
Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognized. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. My editor was keen, the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitlers new building with his presence. Russell gave him an oh yeah? look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaneys office when the latters invitation had arrived, complete with an un
solicitedand presumably accidentalextra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on: He had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.
A one-man band, he muttered, looking at Russells camera.
I prefer to think of myself as a Renaissance man, Russell told him, just as the doors swung open.
The fifty or so journalists surged into the lobby, where a shiny-looking toady from the Propaganda Ministry was waiting for them. There would be a short tour of the new building, he announced, during which photographs could be taken. The ceremonial opening would take place in the Great Hall at precisely 1:00 PM, and would be followed by a workers lunch for the thousands of people who had worked on the project.
There might be some meat, then, one American journalist muttered.
The toady led them back outside, and around the corner into Vosstrasse. Huge square columns framed the double-gated main entrance, which led into a large court of honor. Russell hung back to take a couple of photos before following his colleagues up a flight of steps to the reception hall. From there, bronze eagles clutching swastikas guarded fifteen-foot doors to a bigger hall clad in gray and gold tiles. The Fuhrer was unavailable, so Russell used Slaneys shoulder to steady the Leica.
More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 meters, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. And my mother told me size didn't matter, one journalist lamented in English. I expect your father had a whopper, another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadn't damaged it.
The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitlers entrance.
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