Thanks. Russell stood up. One other thing. You dont by any chance know of a good place to pick up a secondhand car?
Zembski dida cousin in Wedding owned a garage which often had cars to sell. Tell him I sent you, he said, after giving Russell directions, and you may get another discount. We Silesians are all heart, he added, chins wobbling with merriment.
Russell walked the short distance back to the U-bahn, then changed his mind and took a seat in the shelter by the tram stop. Gazing back down the brightly lit Berlinerstrasse toward Zembskis studio, he wondered whether hed just crossed a very dangerous line. No, he reassured himself, all hed done was commission a false passport. He would cross the line when he made use of it.
AFTER TEACHING THE WIESNER girls the next morning, Russell headed across town in search of Zembskis cousin. He found the garage on one of Weddings back streets, sandwiched between a brewery and the back wall of a locomotive depot, about half a kilometer from the Lehrter Station. Zembskis cousin Hunder was also a large man, and looked a lot fitter than Zembski. He seemed to have half a dozen young men working for him, most of them barely beyond school age.
The cars for sale were lined around the back. There were four of them: a Hanomag, an Opel, a Hansa-Lloyd, and another Opel. Any color you want as long as its black, Russell murmured.
We can re-spray, Hunder told him.
No, blacks good, Russell said. The more anonymous the better, he thought. How much are they? he asked.
Hunder listed the prices. Plus a ten percent discount for a friend of my cousin, he added. And a full tank. And a months guarantee.
The larger Hansa-Lloyd looked elegant, but was way out of Russells monetary reach. And he had never liked the look of Opels.
Can I take the Hanomag out for a drive? he asked.
You do know how? Hunder inquired.
Yes. He had driven lorries in the War, and much later he and Ilse had actually owned a car, an early Ford, which had died ignominiously on the road to Potsdam soon after their marriage met a similar fate.
He climbed into the driving-seat, waved the nervous-looking Hunder a cheerful goodbye, and turned out of the garage yard. It felt strange after all those years, but straightforward enough. He drove up past the sprawling Lehrter goods yards, back through the center of Moabit, and up Invalidenstrasse. The car was a bit shabby inside, but it handled well, and the engine sounded smooth enough.
He stopped by the side of the Humboldt canal basin and wormed his way under the chassis. There was a bit of rust, but not too much. No sign of leakages, and nothing seemed about to fall off. Brushing himself down, he walked around the vehicle. The engine compartment looked efficient enough. The tires would need replacing, but not immediately. The lights worked. It wasnt exactly an Austro-Daimler, but it would have to do.
He drove back to the garage and told Hunder hed take it. As he wrote out the check, he reminded himself how much hed be saving on tram and train tickets.
It was still early afternoon as he drove home, and the streets, with the exception of Potsdamerplatz, were relatively quiet. He parked in the courtyard, and borrowed a bucket, sponge, and brush from an excited Frau Heidegger. She watched from the step as he washed the outside and cleaned the inside, her face full of anticipation. A quick drive, he offered, and she needed no second bidding. He took them through Hallesches Tor and up to Viktoria Park, listening carefully for any sign that the engine was bothered by the gradient. There was none. I havent been up here for years, Frau Heidegger exclaimed, peering through the windshield at the Berlin panorama as they coasted back down the hill.
Effi was just as excited a couple of hours later. Her anger at his late arrival evaporated the moment she saw the car. Teach me to drive, she insisted.
Russell knew that both her father and ex-husband had refused to teach her, the first because he feared for his car, the second because he feared for his social reputation. Women were not encouraged to drive in the new Germany. Okay, he agreed, but not tonight, he added, as she made for the drivers seat.
It was a ten-minute drive to the Conways modern apartment block in Wilmersdorf, and the Hanomag looked somewhat overawed by the other cars parked outside. Dont worry, Effi said, patting its hood. We need a name, she told Russell. Something old and reliable. How about Hindenburg?
Hes dead, Russell objected.
I suppose so. How about Mother?
Mine isnt reliable.
Oh all right. Ill think about it.
They were the last to arrive. Phyllis Conway was still putting the children to bed, leaving Doug to dispense the drinks. He introduced Russell and Effi to the other three couples, two of whomthe Neumaiers and the Auerswere German. Hans Neumaier worked in banking, and his wife looked after their children. Rolf and Freya Auer owned an art gallery. Conways replacement, Martin Unsworth, and his wife Fay made up the third couple. Everyone present, Russell reckoned, either was approaching, was enjoying or had recently departed their thirties. Hans Neumaier was probably the oldest, Fay Unsworth the youngest.
Effi disappeared to read the children a bedtime story, leaving Russell and Doug Conway alone by the drinks table. I asked the Wiesners, Conway told him. I went out to see them. He shook his head. They were pleased to be asked, I think, but they wouldn't come. Dont want to risk drawing attention to themselves while theyre waiting for their visas, I suppose. They speak highly of you, by the way.
Is there nothing you can do to speed up their visas?
Nothing. Ive tried, believe me. Im beginning to think that someone in the system doesnt like them.
Why, for Gods sake?
I dont know. Ill keep trying, but. . . . He let the word hang. Oh, he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out two tickets. I was given these today. Brahms and something else, at the Philharmonie, tomorrow evening. Would you like them? We cant go.
Thanks. Effill be pleased.
Whats she doing now? Barbarossa has finished, hasnt it?
Yes. But youd better ask her about the next project.
Conway grinned. I will. Come on, wed better join the others.
The evening went well. The conversation flowed through dinner and beyond, almost wholly in German, the two Conways taking turns at providing translation for Fay Unsworth. The two German men were of a type: scions of upper middle class families who still prospered under the Nazis but who, in foreign company especially, were eager to demonstrate how embarrassed they were by their government. They and Freya Auer lapped up Effis account of the Mother storyline, bursting into ironic applause when she described the hospital bed denouement. Only Ute Neumaier looked uncomfortable. Among her fellow housewives in Grunewald she would probably give the story a very different slant.
Rolf Auer was encouraged to recount some news hed heard that afternoon. Five of Germanys most famous cabaret comediansWerner Finck, Peter Sachse, and the Three Rulandshad been expelled from the Reich Cultural Chamber by Goebbels. They wouldn't be able to work in Germany again.
When was this announced? Russell asked.
It hasnt been yet. Goebbels has a big piece in the Beobachter tomorrow morning. Its in there.
Last time I saw Finck at the Kabarett, Russell said, he announced that the old German fairytale section had been removed from the program, but that thered be a political lecture later.
Everyone laughed.
Itll be hard for any of them to get work elsewhere, Effi said. Their sort of comedys all about language.
Theyll have to go into hibernation until its all over, Phyllis said.
Like so much else, her husband agreed.
Where has all the modern art gone? Effi asked the Auers. Six years ago there must have thousands of modern paintings in Germanythe Blau Reiter group, the Expressionists before them, the Cubists. Where are they all?
A lot of them are boxed up in cellars, Rolf Auer admitted. A lot were taken abroad in the first year or so, but since then. . . . A lot were owned by Jews, and most of those have been sold, usually at knockdown prices. Mo
stly by people who think theyll make a good profit one day, sometimes by people who really care about them as art and want to preserve them for the future.
It sounded as if the Auers had a few in their cellar. Ive heard Hermanns building up his collection, Russell observed.
He has good taste, Auer conceded with only the faintest hint of sarcasm.
The conversation moved on to architecture and Speers plans for the new Berlin. Russell watched and listened. It was a civilized conversation, he thought. But the civilization concerned was treading water. There was an implied acceptance that things had slipped out of joint, that some sort of correction was needed, and that until that correction came along, and normal service was resumed, they were stuck in a state of suspended animation. The Conways, he saw, were only too glad to be out of it; America would be a paradise after this. The Unsworths didn't have a clue what they were getting into and, unless they were much more perceptive than they seemed, would draw all the wrong conclusions from gatherings like this one. But the three German coupleshe included himself and Effiwere just waiting for the world to move on, waiting at the Fuhrers pleasure.
Whatll happen to you if theres a war? Unsworth was asking him.
Ill be on the same train as you, I expect, Russell told him. Across the table, Effi made a face.
Thatll be hard, after living here for so long.
It will. I have a son here, too. Russell shrugged. But itll be that or internment.
In the way home, sitting in a line of traffic at the eastern end of the Kudamm, Effi suddenly turned to him and said: I dont want to lose you.
I dont want to lose you either.
She slipped an arm through his. How long do you think a war will last?
Ive no idea. Years, at least.
Maybe we should think about leaving. I know, she added quickly, that you dont want to leave Paul. But if theres a war and they lock you up youll be leaving him anyway. And we . . . oh I dont know. Its all so ridiculous.
Russell moved the car forward a few meters. Its something to think about. And it was. She was righthed lose Paul anyway. And he couldn't spend the rest of his life clinging to the boy. It wasnt fair to her. It probably wasnt fair to Paul.
I dont want to go either, but. . . .
I know. I think weve got a few months at least. He leaned over and kissed her, which drew an angry blow of the horn from the car behind them. And I cant let Paul run my whole life, he said, testing the thought out loud as he released the clutch.
Not forever, anyway. Has he seen the car yet?
No. Tomorrow.
THERE WAS SUNSHINE ON SATURDAY, the first in a week. He arrived at the Gehrts household soon after two, and felt somewhat deflated by the sight of Matthiass Horch. How had he expected Paul to get excited by a 1928 Hanomag?
He needn't have worried. His son, happily changed out of his Jungvolk uniform, was thrilled by the car, and thrilled by their exhilarating 100kph dash down the new Avus Speedway, which connected the eastern end of the Kudamm to the first completed stretch of the Berlin orbital outside Potsdam. On their way back they stopped for ice cream at a cafe overlooking the Wannsee, and Russell allowed his son to work the petrol pump at the adjoining garage. FatherI mean Matthiaswouldn't let me do this, Paul said, anxiously scanning Russells face for signs of hurt or anger at his slip.
Its okay. You can call him father, Russell said. Short for stepfather.
All right, Paul agreed.
During their four hours together, his son showed none of the reticence hed displayed on the phone. Just a passing something, Russell hoped. He had a wonderful afternoon.
The evening wasnt bad either. Effi looked stunning in another new dressMother was certainly paying welland three members of the Philharmonie audience came up and asked for her autograph, which pleased her no end. Unlike Russell she had been brought up on a diet of classical music, and sat in rapt attention while his wandered. Looking round the auditorium, it occurred to him that this was one of the places where nothing much had changed. The music was judenfrei, of course, and Hitlers picture dominated the lobby, but the same stiff-necked, overdressed people were filling the seats, wafting their fans, and rustling their programs. It could have been 1928. Or even 1908. All across Germany there were people living in time bubbles like this one. That was the way it was, and would be, until Hitler marched across one border too many and burst them all.
Russell couldn't complain about the effect the music had on Effishe insisted on their going straight home to make love. Afterward, lying in an exhausted heap among the tangled sheets, they laughed at the trail of clothes disappearing into the living room. Like our first time, remember? Effi said.
Russell couldn't remember a better day, and hated to spoil it. Ive got something to tell you, he said, propping himself up against the headboard. You know I said Id heard rumors that they were planning to change the Law on the Prevention of Hereditary Diseases?
Yes. She sat up too.
I didn't.
Then why. . . ?
Tyler McKinley was working on a story about it. He got me to go with him when he interviewed this woman in Neukolln. Russell told her about Theresa Jurissen, about Marietta, about the KdF letter to clinic heads and what she had claimed was in it.
Why didn't you tell me? Effi asked, more surprised than angry.
Because youd have to tell Zarah, and Zarah would have to tell Jens, and Id have to explain where I got the information from. He looked her in the face. McKinleys dead, Effi. And he didn't commit suicide. He was murdered.
She took that in, looking, Russell thought, extraordinarily beautiful.
So why are you telling me now? she asked calmly.
He sighed. Because I hate keeping things from you. Because I owe it to Zarah. I dont know. Could you swear Zarah to secrecy, do you think?
Maybe. But in any case I dont think Jens would turn you in. Zarah would certainly kill him if he did. For my sake, of course, not yours.
Of course.
Butand I hate to say thisgiven how Zarah feels about you, shell want more than your word. So will he. Theyll want some sort of proof.
I dont blame them. Whens that appointment you mentioned?
Monday.
She should put it off.
How will that help?
He explained about McKinleys passport and Zembskis commission. On Tuesday I can pick up the letter and whatever else McKinley had.
Youre going to claim it using a bogus passport? Isnt that risky? What if they remember McKinley from when he handed it in?
He wouldn't have handed it inhed have posted it. Itll be okay.
Are you sure?
He laughed. No, of course not.
SUNDAY WAS ANOTHER COLD BRIGHT DAY. Russell picked his son up in Grunewald soon after 10:00, and headed for Potsdam on the Avus Speedway. From there they took the Leipzig road, driving southwest through Treuenbrietzen and over the hills to Wittenberg, stopping for an early lunch by the bridge across the Elbe. They reached Leipzig ninety minutes ahead of kickoff and did a quick spin round the town center, with its imposing eighteenth-century residences, myriad publishing houses, and enormous Hauptbahnhof. Paul, though, was eager to reach the field, and seemed somewhat lacking in faith that his father would find it in time.
He found it with twenty minutes to spare. They followed another father-son couple wearing Hertha colors through the turnstiles, and worked their way around to where the hundred or so others whod made the trip from Berlin were standing, behind one of the goals. The stadium was bigger than the Plumpe, and seemed almost full for this cup tie. Standing there waiting for the teams to come out, watching the flicker of matches being struck in the shadowed grandstand, Russell felt a sudden surge of sadness. Another time bubble, he thought.
The home crowd greeted their team with a hearty roar, but that was almost the last thing they had to cheer. The home team had one of those afternoons, doing everything but score on numerous occasions, before making one fatal mistake at the end. P
aul was ecstatic, and quite unwilling to admit there was anything undeserved in Herthas victory. Its about goals, Dad, he said trenchantly, before Russell could suggest anything to the contrary. On the way out, Paul scanned the ground for a discarded program and finally found one. For Joachim, he said triumphantly.
Russell had thought about inviting Thomas and Joachim to join them, but had decided he wanted the time alone with his son. If Paul wanted to get something off his chest, he wouldn't do it with Thomas and Joachim in the car.
The decision bore fruit, though hardly in the way Russell had expected. It was dark by the time they left Leipzig, the road lit only by their own lights and the occasional passage of a vehicle in the opposite direction. On either side the darkness was only relieved by the dim lights of an occasional farm.
They had been driving about ten minutes when Paul broke the silence. Dad, I think you should move to England, he blurted out, as if he couldn't hold the thought in any longer.
Why? Russell asked, though he could guess the answer.
Well, you cant help being English, can you?
No, I cant.
But that wont help. I mean it doesnt help the Jews, does it?
No, Russell agreed. What made you think about this? he asked. Has something happened? Has someone said something? He half-expected to find that Paul had overheard a conversation between his mother and stepfather.
Not exactly, Paul replied. At the Jungvolk . . . no one has actually said anything, but they know Im half-English, and when they look at me its like theyre not sure whose side Im on. Im not saying its bad being half-Englishits not like being half-Jewish or half-Polish or anything like thatand if theres a war with England I can tell everyone Im loyal to the Fuhrer, but you wont be able to do that. I dont think youll be safe in Germany. Youll be much safer in England.
Maybe, Russell said, for want of something better.
Wouldn't Effi go with you?
She might.
I really like her, you know.
I know you do. And Im glad.
I dont want you to go. I just. . . .
What?
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