Russell grunted. Nice.
They asked after each others better halves, both current and former.
Youre asking me? Thomas said when Russell enquired after Ilse. I havent see her for weeks. Last time we went over there, well. . . . He didn't continue.
You didn't have a row?
Oh no, nothing like that, Thomas said, as if rows were something that happened to other people. Which, in his case, they usually were. I just find Matthias so . . . oh, I dont know . . . complacent? Is that the right word for people who say they fear the worst but live their lives as if theres bound to be a happy ending?
It might be, Russell agreed. He realized he hadn't told Thomas about his trip to Cracow, or asked him to take Paul to the match on Sunday, and did so now.
Thomas was happy to take Paul, but bemused by Russells choice of Cracow for the Germanys Neighbours series. Wouldn't a day trip to Posen have been good enough? he wanted to know.
Russell had a sudden desire to tell Thomas about Shchepkinif something went wrong, there would be someone to offer some sort of explanation to Paul and Effibut held himself back. He would be compromising Thomas, and to what real end? What could go wrong?
WAITING BEHIND ANOTHER CUSTOMER for his Friday morning paper, Russell caught sight of the headline: BARCELONA FALLS. On impulse, he turned away. That was one story he didn't want to read. The Spanish Civil War was over. The good guys had lost. What else was there to say?
As it had gone down so well on his last visit, he bought another ancient Daily Mail at the Alexanderplatz kiosk. This had an article on young English girls collecting stamps, which he knew would interest Ruth and Marthe, and a big piece on the recent loss of the Empire Flying Boat Cavalier, complete with map and diagram, which Paul would love. He saved the best, however, for the very end of the girls lessona report on a tongue-twisting competition on the BBC. Trying to say should such a shapeless sash such shabby stitches show got Ruth giggling so hard she really was in stitches, and Marthe fared little better with the flesh of freshly fried flying fish.
The doctor was not at home, so Russell handed the copy of the latest rules governing Jewish emigration to Frau Wiesner. He had collected them the previous day from the British Passport Control Office. But they ignore their own rules half the time, the young official had told him bitterly. You can count on getting a change of clothes past them, but anything else is as likely to be confiscated as not. If your friends have any other way of getting stuff out, they should use it.
Russell passed on the advice, and watched Frau Wiesners heart visibly sink.
If you need help, ask me, he said, surprising himself. I dont think Id have any trouble shipping stuff to my family in England.
Her eyes glowed. Thank you, she said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.
He journeyed home to pack, stopping off in Alexanderplatz for a late lunch. At least he was pleasing some people. He hadn't seen Effi since Sunday and the round of mutual accusations which he had so stupidly instigated. They hadn't had a rowthey had even managed two reasonably friendly conversations on the telephonebut he knew she was angry with him, and his non-availability for the Barbarossa sendoff had made things worse.
Paul didn't seem that much happier with him, despite the promise of a trip the following Sunday to see the cup tie in Dresden. There was something going on, but Paul wasnt prepared to talk about it, at least not on the telephone.
Frau Heidegger was glad to see him, and sorry his imminent train prevented him from joining her for coffee. Up in his apartment, he threw a few spare clothes into a suitcase, checked that he had his notes for the next article, and headed back down. On the next landing he ran into a smiling McKinley.
Everything okay? Russell asked in passing.
Uh-huh. Im just waiting for our friends letter and . . . bingo!
Russell laughed and rattled on down the stairs.
He arrived at the Schlesinger Bahnhof with twenty minutes to spare. The train was already sheltering under the wrought-iron canopy, and he walked down the platform in search of his carriage and seat. As he leaned out the window to watch a train steam in from the east a paper boy thrust an afternoon edition under his nose. The word Barcelona was again prominent, but this time he handed over the pfennigs. As his train gathered speed through Berlins industrial suburbs he read the article from start to finish, in all its sad and predictable detail.
Three years of sacrifice, all for nothing. Three years of towns won, towns lost. Russell had registered the names, but resisted further knowledge. It was too painful. Thousands of young men and women had gone to fight fascism in Spain, just as thousands had gone, like him, to fight for communism twenty years earlier. According to Marx, history repeated itself first as tragedy and then as farce. But no one was laughing. Except perhaps Stalin.
Russell supposed he should be glad that Spain would soon be at peace, but even that was beyond him. He stared out the window at the neat fields of the Spree valley, basking in the orange glow of the setting sun, and felt as though he were being lied to. Seconds later, as if in confirmation, the train thundered through a small town station, its fluttering swastika deep blood-red in that self-same glow, a crowd of small boys in uniform milling on the opposite platform.
THE FOOD IN THE RESTAURANT car proved surprisingly good. The menu had a distinctly Polish flavor, although as far as Russell could see there were few Poles on the train. Most of his fellow-passengers were German males, mainly commercial travelers or soldiers on leave. There was only a sprinkling of couples, though the pair at the next table had enough sexual energy for ten. They could hardly keep their hands off each other while eating, and the young man kept checking his watch, as if willing the train on to Breslau, where the sleeping coaches would be attached.
The couple soon disappeared, probably in search of an empty bathroom. The romance of trains, Russell thought, staring at his own reflection in the window. He remembered the overnight journey to Leningrad with Ilse in 1924, just after theyd met. People had slept in the bathrooms on that train, and anywhere else they could find a space. He and Ilse had had to wait.
Fifteen years. The Soviet Union had come a long way since then, one way or another. Some people came back from visits singing its praises. There was still much to do, of course, but it was the future in embryo, a potential paradise. Other returnees shook their heads in sadness. A dream warped beyond recognition, they said. A nightmare.
Russell guessed the latter was nearer the truth, but sometimes wondered whether that was just his natural pessimism. It had to be a bit of both, but where the balance lay he didn't know.
More to the point, what did Moscow want with him? What they said they wanted? Or something else? Or both? Trelawney-Smythe had been certain they would ask for more, and Kleist had hinted as much. He didn't even know who he was dealing with. Was Shchepkin NKVD or GRU? Or some other acronym he hadn't even heard of? A French correspondent in Berlin had told him that the NKVD was now split between a Georgian faction and the rest, and for all Russell knew the GRU was eaten up by factional rivalry over how much salt they put in the canteen borsht.
And why was he assuming it would be Shchepkin again? The revolution was burning its human fuel at quite a rate these days, and Shchepkin, with his obvious intelligence, seemed highly combustible.
He would have to deal with whoever presented himself. Or herself. But what would he or she want? What could they want? Information about German military strengths and weaknesses? About particular weapons programs? Political intentions? Military plans? He had no informationno access to informationabout any of that. Thank God.
What did he have that they valued? Freedom to move around Germany. Freedom to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Even more so now, with Kleists letter in his possession. Maybe one of their agents had gone missing, and they would ask Russell to find out what had happened to him. Or they might want to use him as courier, carrying stuff to or from their agents. That would explain the meetings outside Germany.
Or they could use him as a conduit. The Soviets knew the Germans would check up on him, and assumed he would be asked for reports on his meetings. And the British too. They would have counted on the British calling him in. They could use him as a human mailbox, with Kleist and Trelawney-Smythe as the sorters.
They might be just making it up as they went along. His unusual situation made him potentially useful, and they were still looking for a way to realize that potential. That would explain the articles and oral reportsa sort of halfway house to prepare him for a truly clandestine life. There was no way of knowing. Russell leaned back in his chair, remembering the remark of a Middlesex Regiment officer in 1918. Intelligence services, the man had said, are prone to looking up their own arses and wondering why its dark.
SOON AFTER 10:00 PM the train reached Breslau, the destination of most passengers. As they filtered out through the dimly lit exit, many of the remaining passengers took the chance to stretch their legs on the snow-strewn platform. Russell walked to the back of the train and watched a busy little shunter detach four saloons and replace them with three sleepers. It was really cold now, and the orange glow from the engines firebox made it seem more so.
He walked back up the platform, arms clasped tightly across his chest. Cold, eh, a young soldier said, stamping his feet and taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He was only about eighteen, and seemed to have a summer uniform on.
As Russell nodded his agreement a whistle sounded the all aboard.
Walking up the train, he reclaimed his seat in an almost empty carriage. The sleeping car attendants would be rushed off their feet for the next quarter of an hour, and he wasnt ready for sleep in any case. As the train pulled out of the station the ceiling lights were extinguished, allowing him a view through the window of flat meadows stretching north toward a distant line of yellow lights. The Oder River, likely as not.
Hoping for some conversation he revisited the restaurant car, but the only customers were a middle-aged German couple deep in the throes of an argument. The barman sold him a Goldwasser, but made it abundantly clear he was through talking for the day. Around 11:30 Russell reluctantly worked his way back down the train to the sleeping cars. The attendant showed him to his berth, and generously pointed out that the one above was unoccupied. He could take his pick.
Russell tossed his bag on the upper bunk, used the bathroom, and climbed half-dressed into the lower bunk. He would have a bath when he reached his hotel, he thought. It was an expensive one, so he didn't think there would be any problem with hot water.
As usual, he couldn't sleep. He lay there, feeling the sway of the train, listening to the click of the wheels on the rail joints, thinking about Effi. She was younger than him, eight years younger. Maybe peoples expectations shifted after a certain age, which hed reached and she hadn't. Was that why they were still living apart? Why had neither of them ever mentioned marriage? Was he afraid of something? He didn't think so. But then, what was the point of turning their lives upside-down when the Fuhrer was about to do it for them?
SHORTLY AFTER 8:00 IN THE MORNING he was standing, yawning, on one of Cracow Plaszow stations snow-covered platforms. After eventually getting to sleep, he had twice been roused for border inspections, and could hardly have felt worse if hed been awake all night.
He started toward the exit, and almost went over on a patch of ice. Further up the platform a line of young railway employees were working their way toward him, breath pumping, shoveling snow and noisily digging at the ice beneath with their spades. The sky above them seemed heavy with future snowfalls.
His hotel was on the other side of Cracows old town, some three miles away. He found a taxi outside the station, and a taxi-driver who wanted to practice his English. He had a cousin in Chicago, he said, but he wanted to go to Texas and work in the oil industry. That was where the future was.
As they drove north through the Jewish quarter Russell noticed an image of the Marx Brothers adorning a cinema on Starowi?lna Street. The name of the film was in Polish, but his drivers English failed him. He asked again at the Hotel Francuski reception, and received a confident answer from a young man in a very shiny suit. The film, which had only just opened, was called Broth of the Bird.
His room was on the third floor, looking out on Pijakska Street, which was full of well-insulated, purposeful walkers, presumably on their way to work. A church stood just across the way, the beauty of its rococo facade still visible beneath the clinging snow.
The room itself was large, high-ceilinged and well-furnished. The bed gave without sagging; the two-person sofa was almost luxurious. The small table and upright chair by the window were custom-made for the visiting journalist. There was a spacious wardrobe for hanging his clothes. The lights all worked, both here and in the adjoining bathroom, which seemed almost as big. The water ran hot in the spacious four-legged bath, and Russell lay soaking until he realized he was falling asleep.
After a shave and change of clothes he ventured out again. As he had expected, it was snowing, large flakes of the stuff floating down in dense profusion. Following the receptionists directions, Russell turned right outside the door, and right again opposite the church, into ?w Jana Street. Following this south across two intersections he reached the Rynek Glowny, Europes largest market square. The center of the huge expanse was occupied by a Gothic hall, but Russells eyes were instantly drawn to his left and the loveliest church he had ever seen. Two asymmetrical towers soared skyward through the curtain of snow, one climaxing in a flurry of spires, the other, slightly less high, with a small renaissance dome. Both were stacked with windows, like a medieval skyscraper.
For several minutes he stood there entranced, until the cold in his feet and a hunger for coffee drove him into one of the cafes that lined the square. Two cups and a roll packed with thick slices of bacon later he felt ready to face a day of work. The cafe might have been half-empty, but all the customers were Germanys Neighbours. He introduced himself to one young Polish couple and took it from there. For the next few hours he worked his way round the cafes and bars of the old town, asking questions.
Most of those he approached spoke some English or some German, and he didn't get many refusals. His own Englishness usually got him off to a favorable start, since many of his interviewees chose to believe that he had a personal line to Neville Chamberlain. Would England fight for Poland? they all asked. And when Russell expressed a sliver of doubt as to whether she would, they couldn't believe it. But you fought for Belgium! several of them said indignantly.
There was virtual unanimity about Polands situation. Germany was a menace, the Soviets were a menace: It was like choosing between cholera and the Black Death. What did they think about the German request for an extra-territorial road across the corridor? They could whistle. Would they fight for German Danzig? Every last stone. Would they win? He must be joking.
He couldn't be certain of course, but the few people who refused him all looked Jewish. A shadow dropped over their eyes when he introduced himself, a hunted look on their faces as they backed away, pleading lack of time or some other excuse. As if he were an advance guard for the Nazis, his very presence in Cracow a harbinger of disaster.
The snow kept falling. He ate an omelette for lunch in one of the Rynek Glowny cafes, and then trudged up and down the main shopping streets in search of a present for Effi. He half-expected Shchepkin to suddenly appear at his shoulder, but there was no sign of him or of anyone who seemed like one of his associates. As far as Russell could tell, no one was tracking his footsteps in the snow.
After slipping on some icy cobbles and being almost run over by a tram he decided a rest was in order and retreated to his hotel for a nap. It was 7:00 by the time he woke, and he felt hungry again. A new receptionist recommended a restaurant on Starowi?lna Street, which turned out to be only a few doors from the cinema showing the Marx Brothers movie. It was too good an invitation to miss. After partaking of a wonderful wienerschnitzelat least
Cracow had something to thank the Hapsburg Empire forhe joined the shivering queue for the evening showing.
Inside the cinema it was hot, noisy, and packed. Surveying the audience before the lights went down, Russell guessed that at least half of the people there were Jewish. He felt cheered by the fact that this could still seem normal, even in a country as prone to anti-Semitism as Poland. He wished Ruth and Marthe were there with him. And Albert. He couldn't remember ever seeing Albert laugh.
The newsreel was in Polish, but Russell got the gist. The first item featured a visit to Warsaw by the Hungarian Foreign Minister, and no doubt claimed that he and Colonel Beck had discussed matters of mutual importance, without spelling out what everyone knew these werechoosing their cuts of Czechoslovakia once the Germans had delivered the body. The second item concerned Danzig, with much piling of sandbags round the Polish Post Office. The third, more entertainingly, featured a man in New York walking a tightrope between skyscrapers.
The movie proved a surreal experience in more ways than one. Since it was subtitled in Polish, the audience felt little need to keep quiet, and Russell had some trouble catching all the wisecracks. And as the subtitling ran a few seconds behind the visuals, he often found himself laughing ahead of everyone else, like some eccentric cackler.
None of it mattered, though. Hed loved the Marx Brothers since seeing Animal Crackers during the last days of the Weimar Republic, before Jewish humor followed Jewish music and Jewish physics into exile. By the time Broth of the Bird was half an hour old he was literally aching with laughter. The films subject-matterthe approach of an utterly ridiculous war between two Ruritanian countrieswas fraught with contemporary relevance, but any dark undertone was utterly overwhelmed by the swirling tide of joyous anarchy. If you wanted something real to worry about, there were cracker crumbs in the bed with a woman expected. The only sane response to rampant patriotism was: Take a card! As the audience streamed out of the cinema, at least half the faces seemed streaked with tears of laughter.
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