Only one man mentioned the Jews, and then only in a dismissive preamblenow that the Jewish question is nearing solution. What did he mean? Russell asked. Well, the man replied, theyll all be gone soon, wont they? I have nothing against them personally, but a lot of people have, and theyll be happier elsewhere, thats obvious.
THE WIESNERS WOULD HAVE agreed with him. The girls seemed subdued when he saw them on Wednesday morning, polite and willing as ever, but less perky, as if more bad news had just descended on the household. One reason became clear when Frau Wiesner asked for a word with him after the lesson.
She wanted to ask him a favor, she said. She didn't want her husband to know but, could he, Russell, have a word with Albert. He was behaving recklessly, just saying whatever came into his mind, associating with . . . well, she didn't know who, but . . . he wouldn't listen to his father, she knew that, and he wouldn't listen to her, but Russell, well, he was outside it all: He wasnt a Jew, wasnt a Nazi, wasnt even a German. He knew what was happening, how dangerous things were. They were working on getting visas, but it took so long. Albert said they were dreaming, theyd never get them, but he didn't know that, and he was putting the girls future at risk as well as his own. . . .
She ran out of words, just looked at him helplessly.
Russells heart sunk at the prospect, but he agreed to try.
Ill make sure hes here on Friday, after the lesson, she said.
THAT EVENING, HE WAS getting his Dresden notes in order when Tyler McKinley knocked on his door. Ive come to apologize, the American said.
What for? Russell asked.
You know. The other night.
Oh that. Forget it.
Okay. How about a drink?
Russell rubbed his eyes. Why not?
They went to their usual bar, sat at the same table. Russell thought he recognized the stains from the previous week. His companion seemed relieved that he wasnt holding a grudge, and was drinking dark beer for a change. The bar was more crowded than usual, with a population reaching toward double figures.
McKinley got out his pipe and tin of Balkan mixture. What got you started in journalism? Russell asked.
Oh, I always wanted to be one. Long as I can remember. The American smiled reminiscently. When I was a kid I used to spend the summers with my mothers folks in Nugget Cityyouve probably never heard of it. Its a small town in California. Grew up in the Gold Rush days, been shrinking ever since. My granddad ran the local paper in his spare time. Just a weekly. Two pages. Four if something had actually happened. I used to help him with stuff. On print day wed both come home covered in ink. I loved it. He picked up the tobacco tin, and put it down again. Granddad and Grandma both died when I was twelve, so all that stopped. I tried offering my services to the San Francisco papers, but they didn't want kids hanging around in their print rooms. Not surprising, really. Anyway, I got involved with my high school paper, and then the college paper, and eventually got a job at the Examiner. Three years in sports, three on the city desk, and I finally got myself sent to Europe. He grinned. I still love it.
What did your family think? Russell asked. He meant about coming to Europe, but McKinley, busy loading his pipe, answered a different question.
My father was furious. He has his own law firm, and I was supposed to sign up, start at the bottom and eventually take over. He thinks journalists are grubby little hacks, you know, like The Front Page. His eyes lit up. Did you know theyre remaking that, with a woman reporter? Rosalind Russell, I think. And Cary Grants her editor. I read about it in one of Merles Hollywood magazines.
Your Dad still furious?
Not so much. I mean, theyre happy enough to see me when I come home. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Its funny, he added, my sister seems angrier than my father.
What does she do?
Nothing much, as far as I can tell. Shed make a much better lawyer than I would, but . . . well, you know . . . Dad would never take a woman into the firm. He struck a match, applied it to the bowl, and sucked in. The bowl glowed, and a noxious plume of smoke escaped from his lips.
Thats enough to make anyone resentful, Russell said. Not being offered something you want is bad enough; someone else turning it down just adds salt to the wound.
McKinley looked at him as if he were a magician. You know, that never occurred to me.
When did you last go home? Russell asked.
Oh, the Thanksgiving before last. But I write quite often.
Russell thought about his own family. His mother in America, his half-brother in Leeds. Bernard was well over fifty now, the single offspring of his fathers brief liaison with the army nurse who treated himin more ways than oneafter the Gordon campaign in Sudan. Russell hadn't seen him in years, and had no particular desire to do so. There were a couple of uncles in England, one aunt in America, cousins dotted here and there. He hadn't seen any of them either. It was time he took Paul to England, he thought.
He looked at McKinley, happily puffing away at his pipe. Do you never get homesick? he asked.
Sure, sometimes. Days like today I miss the sunshine. I know everyone thinks San Francisco is always shrouded in fog, but it isnt. Its still the loveliest city Ive ever seen. He smiled. But this is where the story is.
Unfortunately.
Well, yes. I was wondering. . . . Im arranging this interview next weekI dont know which evening yetand I wondered if youd be willing to come along. My German is pretty good, but yours is obviously a lot better, and the only time I met this woman I could hardly understand anything she said. And I really cant afford to misunderstand anything she tells me.
Who is she?
McKinley hesitated. She used to work for the Health Ministry.
This is the big story?
McKinley grinned briefly. You could say that. You remember that story I did on asylums last year?
Russell did. It hadn't been at all bad. The American had managed to raise quite a few awkward questions, and it was hardly his fault that no one else had demanded any answers. I remember, he said.
Well, this woman was one of the people I interviewed. She told me a pack of lies, as far as I could tell. And then last week she contacted me out of the blue, said she was willing to give me some information about some of the other stuff Ive heard.
About the asylums?
Yes and no. Look, he said, looking around. I dont want to talk about it here. Lets go back to the house.
Okay, Russell agreed. He was beginning to feel intrigued, despite himself.
As they walked back to Neuenburgerstrasse he kept an eye open for possible shadows, and noticed that McKinley was doing the same. None crept into view, and the street outside their block was empty of cars.
The Knauer boy, McKinley said, once they were ensconced in Russells two armchairs. I dont think his parents gave him a Christian name. He was blind, had only one arm, and part of one leg was missing. He was also, supposedly, an idiot. A medical idiot, I mean. Mentally retarded. Anyway, his father wrote to Hitler asking him to have the boy killed. Hitler got one of the doctors employed by the KdF to confirm the facts, which they did. He then gave the childs own doctors permission to carry out a mercy-killing. The boy was put to sleep. He paused to re-stoke his pipe.
Thats a sad story, Russell said cautiously.
Theres two things, McKinley said. Hitler has never made any secret of his plan to purify the race by sterilizing the mentally handicapped and all the other so-called incurables. And the Nazis are always going on about how much it costs to keep all these people in asylums. They actually use it as an example in one of their school textbooksyou know, how many peoples cars you could build with what it costs to feed and clothe ten incurables for a year. Put the two things together and you get one easy answer: Kill them. It purifies the race and saves money.
Yes, but. . . .
I know. But if the Knauer boy is expendable, why not the others? About one hundred thousand of them, according to the latest figures. Tell the paren
ts theyre doing it to cut short the childs suffering, give them an excuse not to have the problem anymore. In fact, dont even tell the parents. Spare their suffering by saying that the child died of natural causes.
One hundred thousand of them?
Perhaps not, but. . . .
Okay, it sounds feasible. It sounds like the Nazis, for Christs sake. But are they actually doing it? And if they are, do you have any proof that theyre doing it?
There are all sorts of indications. . . .
Not good enough.
Plans, then.
On paper?
Not exactly. Look, will you come and see this woman with me?
Russell knew what the sensible answer was, but McKinley had him hooked. Okay, he said, checking his watch and realizing that hed be late for meeting Effi.
Once out on Lindenstrasse he decided to spend some of his anticipated earnings on a cab. As it swung around the Belle Alliance Platz and headed up Koniggratzerstrasse toward Potsdamer Bahnhofplatz, he watched the people on the sidewalks and wondered how many of them would protest the mercy killing of 100,000 children. Would that be one step too far, or just another milestone in the shedding of a nations scruples?
RUSSELL DIdn't EXPECT TO find many similarities between Tyler McKinley and Albert Wiesner. On the one hand, a boy from a rich family and country with a rewarding job and instant access to a ticket out of Nazi Germany. On the other, a boy without work or prospects of any kind, whose next forwarding address was likely to be Sachsenhausen. Russell, however, soon found himself comparing the two young men. The characters and personalities of both of them had been formed in successful families and, it seemed, in reaction to powerful fathers. Both seemed blessed with enough youthful naivete to render them irritating and likable in turn.
Frau Wiesner produced her son at the end of Fridays lesson. For his mothers and sisters sake the boy made a token effort to mask his sullen resentment at this unnecessary intrusion on his time, but once out of the door he swiftly abandoned any pretence of amiability.
Lets get some coffee, Russell said.
No cafes will serve us, was Alberts reply.
Well, then, lets go for a walk in the park.
Albert said nothing, but kept pace at Russells side as they strolled down Greifswaldstrasse toward the northern entrance of the Friedrichshain, the park which gave the whole district its name. Once inside the main gates Russell led them past the Marchenbrunnen, a series of artificial waterfalls surrounded by sculptured characters from fairytales. He had brought Paul to see it several years ago, when Hansel and Gretelthe figures in the foregroundcould still conjure up nighttime terrors of wicked witches, as Ilse had bitterly complained on the following day.
Albert had a more topical agenda in mind. The witch must have been Jewish, he said.
If she wasnt then, she will be now, Russell agreed.
They walked on into the park, down a wide path beneath the leafless trees. Albert seemed unconcerned by the silence between them, and made a point of catching the eyes of those walking in the opposite direction.
Russell had mentally rehearsed a few lines of adult wisdom on the U-bahn, but theyd all sounded ridiculous. Your mother wanted me to talk to you, he said at last. But I have no idea what to say. You and your family are in a terrible situation. And, well, I guess shes frightened that youll just make things worse for yourself.
And them.
Yes, and them.
I do realize that.
Yes. . . . This is a waste of time, Russell thought. They were approaching one of the parks outdoor cafes. Lets have a coffee here, he said.
They wont serve me.
Just take a seat. Ill get them. He walked up to the kiosk window and looked at the cakes. They had mohrenkopfen, balls of sponge with custard centers, chocolate coats, and whipped cream hats. Two of them and two coffees, he told the middle-aged man behind the counter.
The man was staring at Albert. Hes a Jew, he said finally, as if reaching the end of an exhaustive mental process. We dont serve Jews.
Hes English, Russell said. As am I. He showed the man his Ministry of Propaganda accreditation.
He looks Jewish, the man said, still staring at Albert, who was now staring back. Why dont you just take out your circumcised prick and wave it at him, Russell thought sourly. He may be Jewish for all I know, Russell told the man, but theres no law against serving English Jews.
There isnt?
No, there isnt.
The man just stared at him.
Do you need to hear it from a policeman?
Not if you say so. He gave Albert one final glare and concentrated on pouring out the coffee.
God help us, Russell thought. He could understand Alberts reaction, no matter how counterproductive it was. But this manwhat was he so annoyed about? There were no SS men lounging at his tables, no ordinary citizens on the brink of racial apoplexy. Why did he care so much that a Jew was sitting at one of his rusty tables? Did he really think Jewish germs would rub off on his cups and saucers?
The coffee was spilled in the saucers, but it didn't seem worth complaining. He carried them back to the table, where Albert was now slouched in his chair, legs splayed out in defiance. Russell resisted the temptation to say sit up in your chair and handed him a mohrenkopf. His eyes lit up.
They concentrated on eating for a few minutes.
Do you really think theres any chance well get visas? Albert asked eventually, allowing the merest hint of hope to mar his cynicism.
Yes, Russell said, with more conviction than he felt. It may take a while, but why not? The Nazis dont want you, so why shouldn't they let you go?
Because theyre even more interested in hurting us?
Russell considered that. It had, unfortunately, the ring of truth. The way I see it, he said, you dont have many options. You can fight back and most likely end up in a camp. Or dead. Or you can try and work their system.
Albert gave him a pitying look. There are half a million of us, he said. At the current rate itll take seven years for us all to get visas.
Russell had no answer.
And how long before were at war? Albert persisted.
Who knows. . . .
A year at most. And thatll put a stop to emigration. What do you think theyll do with us then? They wont let us work for a living now, and that wont change. Theyll either leave us to starve or put us in work campsslave labor. Some of my friends think theyll just kill us. And they may be right. Whos going to stop them?
He could add Albert to the list of people hed underestimated, Russell thought.
My fathers Iron Cross was First Class, Albert said. Unlike our beloved Fuhrers.
Russell stared out at the winter trees, and the roof of the old Krankenhaus Hospital rising above them to the south. If youre rightif your friends are rightthen all the more reason not to jeopardize your chancesyour familys chancesof getting out.
I know that, Albert said. But what about the others? One familys success is another familys failure.
Russell had no answer to that either.
But thanks for the coffee and cake, Albert said.
LYING IN BED UNABLE to sleep, Russell thought about Papa Wiesners Iron Cross First Class. It wasnt a medal given to manyhe must have done something pretty special. He supposed he should have realized that a Jew of Wiesners age would have fought in the war, but it hadn't occurred to him. Goebbelss propaganda was obviously working.
He wondered which front Wiesner had served on. He wondered, as he often did with Germans of his own age, whether theyd been facing him across those hundred yards of churned-up meadow near Merville. He sometimes wondered whether Frau Heideggers repeated accusation that he might have shot her husband was simply her way of warding off the possibility that he really had.
He had once thought that he was over the war, that time and circumstance had turned the horror into anger, the anger into politics, and the politics into cynicism, leaving only the abiding belief that people in authority tended, by
and large, to be incompetent, uncaring liars. The war, by this accounting, had been the latest demonstration of a depressingly eternal truth. Nothing more.
Hed been fooling himself. All those whod been in that particular place at that particular time had been indelibly marked by the experience, and he was no exception. You never shook it off completelywhatever it was it had left you with, whether nerves in tatters, an endless rage, or a joy-sapping cynicism. And the memories never seemed to fade. That sudden waft of decomposing flesh, the rats eyes reflected in the shell-burst, the sight of ones own rotting feet. The unnerving beauty of a flare cracking the night sky open. Being splashed with someone elses brain, slapped in the face by death.
Jimmy Sewell was his name. After helping carry what was left of him back to the medical station, Russell had somehow ended up with the letter he had just written to his girlfriend. Things were looking up, Sewell had told her, now that the Yanks were arriving in force. It had been late June or early July, 1918. One of a string of sunny days in northern France.
He and Razor Wilkinson had hitched a ride to Hazebrouck that evening, and gotten pissed out of their minds in a dingy back street bar. The more he drank, the more his brain-spattered face seemed to itch, and he had ended up wading into the River Lys and frantically trying to wash himself clean. Razor had stood on the bank laughing at him, until he realized that Russell was crying, and then hed started crying too.
Twenty-one years ago, but Russell could still feel the current tugging at his legs. He levered himself out of bed and went to the window. Berlin was sleeping, but he could imagine Albert Wiesner lying in bed on his back, hands clenched around the blankets, staring angrily at the ceiling.
WITH PAUL OFF ON his Jungvolk adventure weekend, Russell and Effi spent most of Saturday morning in bed. Russell slipped on some clothes to bring back pastries and coffee from the shop around the corner, and slipped them off again when making love seemed more urgent than eating. Half an hour later Effi re-warmed the coffee on her tiny stove, and brought it back to the bedroom.
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