Zoo Station jr-1

by David Downing

  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 Neukolln 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, hed seen all there was to see.

  The only other items of interest were the imminent departure of Reichsbank President Schacht, the Danzig stamp rowwhich had finally reached the German nationalsand 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. Workers benefits, up to a point. Cheap organized leisure activitiessport, 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 transportthe rocket trains, the autobahns and the peoples 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 statisticssomething they shared with the Nazisand that would involve a little work. But not much. Shchepkins oral reports on the other hand. . . .

  Hed been trying not to think about them. Kleists question about other contacts had also been intended as a warninghe 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 wasnt sure how the Soviets would make any hard feelings felt, but he was sure theyd 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 responseshow, 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 Hitlers thousand.

  That was it, he thought. Ordinary Germans. The British and American tabloids liked series: The Daily Mail was currently doing one on European Troublespotshed read No. 4 (MemelEuropes 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 obviousGermanys 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 wasnt, as Normanton had mischievously claimed, actually called the Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda, but it might have been. There was no sign of Streichers 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 National 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 McKinleys 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 IM 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.

  Hed planned a few more hours of work before picking up Effi from the theater, but after Streicher and the Wiesners he felt more like punching someone. He found another Western on the Kudamm and sank into a world of huge skies, lofty canyons, and simple justice. Chewing gum for the heart.

  Effi was tired and seemed as subdued as he felt. They walked slowly back to her flat, went to bed, and lay quietly in each others arms until she fell asleep. Her face grew younger in sleep, and she looked even more like Ruth Wiesner.

  WEDNESDAY EVENING, RUSSELL WAS listening to dance band music on the BBC when McKinley knocked on his door and suggested a drink. While he collected his shoes from the bedroom the young American scanned his bookshelves. Half of these are banned, he said admiringly when Russell returned.

  I havent got round to burning them yet, he replied, reaching for his coat.

  Outside it was warmer than it had been, but there were specks of rain in the air. As they turned the corner onto Lindenstrasse McKinley took a sudden look over his shoulder, as if hed heard something.

  What? Russell asked, seeing nothing.

  McKinley shook his head. Nothing, he said.

  They walked under the elevated U-bahn tracks at Hallesches Tor, and across Blucherplatz to the bar they used for their infrequent drinks together. It was almost empty. The barman yawned on his stool; two old men in the corner stared morosely at each other. McKinley bought them beersdark for Russell, light for himselfwhile Russell commandeered the only bowl with any nuts and carried it across to the table with the fewest standing pools. As he lowered himself into the seat it groaned alarmingly but held together. We have to find a new bar, he murmured.

  McKinley tried his beer and smiled in satisfaction. Okay, he said. Now tell me about Schacht.

  Hes dead in the water.

  Okay, but why? I never understood economics.

  Schacht d
oes. Thats why.

  What do you mean?

  Russell thought about it. Schacht wants to see the economy run according to the laws of economics. He did when he was Finance Minister, and as long as hes in charge of the Reichsbank hell keep beating the same drum. The trade deficit is soaring, the Reichsbanks holdings of foreign exchange are dwindling, and theres a real possibility of another runaway inflation. The economys running out of control. Schacht would like to raise taxes and switch production from armaments to something that can be sold abroad. Some hope, eh? If Hitler and Goering have to choose between their armament program and the laws of economics, which do you think theyll choose?

  But if the economy is in real trouble?

  Nothing a war wont fix.

  Ah.

  Ah, indeed. Schacht, shall we say, has the narrow view. Hes assuming several years of peace, at the very least. Hitler, on the other hand, sees a choice. He can either do what Schacht wantsrein in the war machine, raise taxes, and get the real economy moving againor he can go for broke, and use the army to put things right. He sees all that wealth beyond his borders, just begging to be collected. Thats why Schacht has to go. Hitlers not going to risk higher taxes in Germany when he can steal the same money from conquered foreigners.

  McKinley looked at him. I never know how serious you are. If this is such a big storySchacht going, I meanthen why isnt it on the front pages back home? If wars so absolutely certain, how come youre the only one who knows it?

  Russell smiled. Just gifted, I guess. Another beer?

  When he got back from the bar, McKinley was making notes in his little black book. Was your dance night a one-off, or are you going out with that girl from the embassy? Russell asked him.

  McKinley blushed. Weve only been out twice. Merle, her name isyou know, like Merle Oberon. Her fathers just a storekeeper in Philadelphia but shes determined to really see life. She wants to see Europe while shes working here, and then the rest of the world if she can.

  Good for her.

  Youve traveled a lot, havent you?

  Once upon a time.

  Have you been to Russia?

  Yes. I met my wife theremy ex-wife, I should say. At a Comintern youth conference in 1924. Lenin had just died and Trotsky hadn't noticed that the rug was gone from under his feet. It was a strange time, a sort of revolutionary cuspnot the moment it all went wrong, but the moment a lot of Party people realized that it already had. Does that make sense?

  I suppose. Im hoping to go in March. The nineteenth Congress is being held in Moscow and Im trying to persuade the paper to send me.

  Thatll be interesting, Russell said, though he doubted it would be.

  Neither of them wanted another drink, and the nuts were all gone. It was raining outside, and they stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the neon shimmers in the puddles. As they passed under the elevated tracks a Warschauer Brucke train rumbled across, its sides streaming with water.

  At the bottom of Lindenstrasse McKinley took a look back across the Belle Alliance Platz. I think Im being followed, he said, almost guiltily, in response to Russells inquiring look.

  I cant see anyone, said Russell, staring into the rain.

  No, neither can I, McKinley said, as they started up Lindenstrasse. Its more of a feeling. . . . I dont know. If they are following me, theyre really good.

  Too many Thin Man movies, Russell thought. Whos they? he asked.

  Oh, the Gestapo, I suppose.

  Moving like wraiths isnt exactly the Gestapo style.

  No, I suppose not.

  Why would they be following you?

  McKinley grunted. That story I told you about. That story I was going to tell you about, he corrected himself.

  Im not sure I want to know anymore, Russell said. I dont want them following me.

  It was meant as a joke, but McKinley didn't take it that way. Well, okay. ...

  Russell was thinking about the car hed seen outside their block. He couldn't imagine the Gestapo being that patient, but there were other sharks in the Nazi sea. Look, Tyler. Whatever it is, if you really are being stalked by the authorities I should just drop it. No storys worth that sort of grief.

  McKinley bristled. Would you have said that ten years ago?

  I dont know. Ten years ago I didn't have the responsibilities I have now.

  Maybe you should ask yourself whether you can still be an honest journalist with those sorts of responsibilities.

  That made Russell angry. You havent cornered the market in honest journalism, for Gods sake.

  Of course not. But I know what matters. That once mattered to you.

  Truth has a habit of seeping out. Russell wasnt even convincing himself, which made him angrier still. Look, there are seventy-five million people out there keeping their heads down. Im just one of them.

  Fine. If you want to keep your head down, wait until it all blows overwell . . . fine. But I cant do that.

  Okay.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence.

  THE CONVERSATION WITH MCKINLEYor, more precisely, the sense of letting himself down that it engenderedlurked with annoying persistence at the back of Russells mind over the next few days. He finished his first article for Pravdaa paean to organized leisure activitiesand delivered it himself to the smiling blonde at 102 Wilhelmstrasse. He received a wire from his US agent bubbling with enthusiasm for the two series. And, by special delivery, he received the letter he had asked Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist for. It was typed rather than written, which was something of a disappointment, but the content left little to be desired: John Russell, it seemed, had full authority from the Propaganda Ministry and Ministry of the Interior to ask such questions as would widen the foreign understanding of National Socialism and its achievements. Those shown the letter were asked and expected to offer him all the assistance they could. All of which would have felt much better if he hadn't seen the disappointment in McKinleys eyes.

  The weekend gave him a welcome break from worrying about his journalistic integrity. On Saturday afternoon he and Paul went to the zoo. They had been there so many times that they had a routinefirst the parrot house, then the elephant walk and the snakes, a break for ice cream, the big cats and, finally, the picce de resistance, the gorilla who spat, with often devastating accuracy, at passersby. After the zoo, they strolled back down the Kudamm, looking in shop windows and eventually stopping for cake. Russell still found the Hitler Youth uniform slightly offputting, but he was gradually getting used to it.

  Sunday, a rare treatan outing to the fair at the end of Potsdamerstrasse with both Paul and Effi. Getting them together was always harder than the actual experience of their being together: Both worried overmuch that theyd be in the others way. It was obvious that Paul liked Effi, and equally obvious why. She was willing to try anything at least once, was able to act any age she thought appropriate, and assumed that he could, too. She was, in fact, most of the things his mother wasnt and never had been.

  After two hours of circling, sliding, dropping, and whirling they took a cab to Effis theater, where she showed Paul around the stage and backstage areas. He was particularly impressed by the elevator and trapdoor in mid-stage which brought the Valkyries up to heaven each evening. When Russell suggested that they should build one for Goebbels at the Sportspalast, Effi gave him a warning look, but Paul, he noticed, was mercifully unable to suppress his amusement.

  The only sad note of the weekend was Pauls news that he would be away for the next weekend at a Hitler Youth adventure camp in the Harz Mountains. He expressed regret at not seeing his dad, and particularly at missing Herthas next home game, but Russell could see he was really looking forward to the camp. Russell was particularly upset because he would be away himself on the following weekend, delivering his first oral report to Shchepkin. And on that weekend he would also be missing Effis end-of-run partyBarbarossa had apparently raised all the national consciousness it was going to raise.

  EARLY ON MONDAY MORNING, he to
ok the train to Dresden for a one-night stay. It was only a two-hour journey, and he had several contacts there: a couple of journalists on the city paper; an old friend of Thomass, also in the paper business; an old friend of his and Ilses, once a union activist, now a teacher. Ordinary Germansif such people existed.

  He saw them all over the two days, and talked to several others they recommended. He also spent a few hours in cafes and bars, joining or instigating conversations when he could, just listening when that seemed more appropriate. As his train rattled northward on Tuesday evening he sat in the buffet car with a schnapps and tried to make sense of what he had heard. Nothing surprising. Ordinary Germans felt utterly powerless, and resigned to feeling so for the foreseeable future. The government would doubtless translate that resignation as passive support, and to some extent they were right. There was certainly no sense that anyone had a practical alternative to offer.

  When it came to Germanys relations with the rest of the world, most people seemed pleasantly surprised that they still had any. The Rhineland, the Anschluss, the Sudetenlandit was as if Hitler had deliberately driven his train across a series of broken points, butthanks be to Godthe train was still on the track. Surely, soon, he would pull the damn thing to a halt. Once Memel and Danzig were back in the fold, once the Poles had given Germany an extra-territorial corridor across their own corridor, then that would be that. Hitler, having expanded the Reich to fit the Volk, would rest on his laurels, a German hero for centuries to come.

  They all said it, and some of them even believed it.

  Their own daily lives were getting harder. Not dramatically, but relentlessly. The economic squeeze was on. Most people were working longer hours for the same pay; many ordinary goods were growing slightly harder to find. The relief which had followed the return of full employment had dissipated.

  Children seemed to be looming ever-larger in their parents minds: the demands in time and loyalty of the Hitler Youth and BDM, the years exile of the arbeitsdienst, the prospect of seeing them marched off to war. If Ordinary Germans wanted anything, it was peace. Years of the stuff, years in which they could drive their peoples cars down their new autobahns.