Is everything all right? she asked anxiously.
Too wonderful to talk about, he said pointedly. What are you doing?
Trying to memorize my part.
Can you meet me in the Zoo Station buffet? he asked. At four oclock, he added, checking his watch.
Ill be there.
Once back on the Landsberg road Russell started looking for a suitable place to burn the passport. A mile or so short of the Ringbahn bridge he found a wide entranceway to a farm track and pulled over. Retrieving the passport from under his seat he ripped it into separate pages and set light to the first one, holding it down between his knees until it was too hot to hold, then shifting it to and fro with his feet until all that remained were black flakes. With his other hand he wafted the resulting smoke out through the open windows.
In the time it took him to burn the remaining five sheets only two trucks went by, and their drivers showed no interest in Russells slightly smoking car. He gathered the blackened remains in his handkerchief, which he knotted and placed in his pocket before resuming his journey. Twenty minutes later he consigned both handkerchief and contents to a lonely stretch of the scum-covered Luisenstrassekanal. The final remains of Zembskis handiwork disappeared with a dull plop, leaving Russell with several burned fingers to remember them by.
It was almost 3:15. He went back to the Hanomag, and started working his way west toward Potsdamerplatz. The traffic around the southern edge of the Tiergarten was busy for the time of day, but he reached his destinationa street halfway between Effis flat and Zoo Stationwith five minutes to spare. He parked facing the direction she would come from, assuming she hadn't picked this day of all days to change her usual route.
Ten minutes later she came into view, walking quickly in her high heels, a few wisps of dark hair floating free of the scarf and hat.
She didn't see him, and jumped with surprise when he told her to get in. You said Zoo Station, she said angrily, as he moved the car down the road. As far as he could see no one had been following her.
That was for the benefit of anyone listening. Ive got something to show you. In private.
Why didn't you just come to the flat then?
Because, he explained patiently, anyone caught with this lot in their flat is likely to end up like McKinley.
Oh. She was taken aback, but only for a second. So where are we going?
Along the canal, I thought, opposite the Zoo restaurant. Theres always people parked there.
Mostly kissing and cuddling.
We can always pretend.
Once they were there, Russell reached down for the manila envelope under Effis seat. Even with the assistance of the nearby streetlamp, reading was difficult, but he didn't dare turn on the cars internal light. Look, he said, you dont need to read all of this. These last few pageshe handed her Morells memo and Theresas lettershould be enough to convince Zarah.
You want me to show them to her?
God, no. I want you to tell her what they are and whats in them. Shell believe you. If you tell her, she wont need to see them.
Okay. Effi started to read, her face increasingly frozen in an expression of utter disgust. Russell stared out of the window, watching the last of the daylight fade. A coal barge puttered by on the canal, the owners dog howling his response to an unknown animals cry emanating from deep within the zoo. My country, Effi murmured, as she moved on to the next sheet.
She read the whole memorandum, and then the KdF letter. You were right, she said. If shed kept that appointment Lothar would be on a list by now.
And it wont be an easy list to get off, Russell said.
They sat there in silence as another barge went by. In the Zoo restaurant across the water someone was stacking dishes.
What can we do? Effi wanted to know.
I dont know. But you can tell Zarah youre convinced. And tell her Im destroying the papers.
Youre not going to?
I dont know. Not yet, anyway. Im going to put them somewhere safe for a while.
She gave him a searching look, as if she wanted to reassure herself of who he was. All those children, she said.
Achievements of the Third Reich
AFTER THE EXCITEMENT OF the previous day, Russell spent Tuesday trying to work. The third article for Pravda was due by the end of the week, and one of the Fleet Street heavies wanted a second Ordinary Germans piece before committing itself to a series. It was write-by-numbers stuff, but he kept finding his mind drifting away from the subjects at hand, usually in the direction of potential threats to his liberty.
If the SD had the same bright idea about the poste restante that he had had, and checked through the records, theyd discover that McKinley had collected something nine days after his death. Everyone knew that Himmler was prone to strange flights of dark fantasyrumor had it that SS agents were searching for the elixir of eternal life in Tibetbut hed probably draw the line at mail-collecting ghosts. A light bulb would go on over his head, complete with the thought-bubble it must have been someone else! And no prizes for guessing who he and his minions would think of first.
Thered be no point in denying ittheyd just drag him down to Heiligegeist and have him identified. Hed have to blame Eleanor McKinley, who was now beyond their reach. Shed given him the passport, hed say. Asked him to pick up the papers, and hed sent them on to her. Simple as that. What was in the envelope? He hadn't opened it. A different photograph in the passport? The clerk must have imagined it. The passport? Hed sent that on as well.
It was about as convincing as one of Goerings economic forecasts. And if some bright spark of Heydrichs decided to find out if there was anything under his name in any German poste restante, hed be left without a prayer. Hed just have to hope that no one in the SD had read Getaway or The High Fence, which was at least possibleThe Saint seemed far too irreverent a hero for Nazis.
Such hopes notwithstanding, every sound of a car in the street, every ring of footsteps in the courtyard below, produced a momentary sinking of the stomach, and later that evening, over at Effis, a sharp rat-a-tat on the door almost sent it through the floor. When Effi ushered a man in uniform through the door it took him several seconds to realize it was only Zarahs husband.
Jens Biesinger worked for some government inspectorate or otherRussell had never bothered to find out exactly whichand was on his way home. He accepted Effis offer of coffee, shook Russells hand, and took a seat, boots and belt creaking as he leaned back with a tired sigh. How is your work? he asked Russell politely.
Russell made appropriate noises, his mind working furiously on what the man could want. His only real conversation with Jens, almost three years earlier, had escalated into a serious argument almost immediately, and Effi of all people had been forced to adopt the role of peacemaker. They had rarely been in the same room since, and on those occasions had treated each other with the sort of icy politeness reserved for loathed relations.
Jens waited until Effi was with them before he stated the object of his visit. John, he began, I have a large favor I would like to ask you. Zarah wishes to take Lothar to England, for reasons that you are aware of. I cannot go with her, for reasons that Im sure you will understand. And Effi starts work on her film on Monday. Zarah doesnt want to wait, so . . . would you escort them? Someone has to, and as an English-speakerand, of course, someone who is almost part of the familyyou would be the ideal person. Naturally, I would pay all the expensesthe flights, the hotel, whatever else is necessary.
Recovering from his surprise, Russell considered the idea. And had another.
Id feel happier if you went with them, John, Effi interjected.
When are you thinking of? Russell asked Jens. Were going away this weekend, and Ill be in Hamburg on Monday and Tuesdaythe Bismarck launch. So it couldn't be until the middle of next weekThursday perhaps?
That sounds reasonable.
Russell brought up his other idea. Id like to take my son too. Ill pay for him, naturally, but if you could arrange
the trip for four. . . . Ill need his mothers agreement, of course, he added.
Jens smiled. An excellent plan. It will look more . . . natural. Ill arrange things for four. If your son cant go we can always amend the reservations. He placed the cup of coffee on the side table and got up, looking pleased with himself. Zarah will be relieved, he said. She was not looking forward to making such a journey alone.
Im sure shed have managed, Effi said with a slight edge, but this will be better.
This is my number at the ministry, Jens said, handing Russell a card.
This is mine at home, Russell replied, tearing a sheet from his notebook and penciling out the Neuenburgerstrasse number. England with Paul, he thought, and he was still reveling in the notion when Effi returned from seeing Jens out.
Youre not to fall in love with my sister, she told him.
HE PHONED ILSE FROM Effis flat early the next morning and arranged to have coffee at a cafe in Halensee which they knew from their earlier life together. Russell wanted to ask her in person rather than over the phone, and she sounded more than willingeager, in factto get out of the house for a couple of hours.
The cafe looked more run-down than Russell remembered it, a consequence, perhaps, of the fact that a large proportion of its former clientele had been Jewish. Ilse was already there, looking less severe than usual. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, which over the last few years had invariably been tied back in a knot, hung loose, softening the stretched lines of her face. She still seemed painfully thin to Russell, and her blue eyes never seemed to soften as once they had, but she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
He told her what he wanted, at worst expecting a flat refusal, at best a painful argument.
I think its a wonderful idea, she said. Well have to inform the school of course, and his Jungvolk leader, but I dont see how either of them could object. Itll be an educational experience, wont it?
I hope so. Matthias wont object?
Why should he?
No reason at all. Well, thats good. I expected more of an argument, he admitted.
Why, for heavens sake? When have I ever tried to come between you and Paul?
He smiled. You havent.
She smiled back. You must be getting lots of work, she said. Pauls very impressed with the car.
They talked about Paul, his interests and anxieties, for more than half an hour. Afterward, driving back across the city for his Wednesday appointment at the Wiesners, Russell found it hard to remember a warmer conversation with his ex-wife. He was still bathing in its glow when he rapped on the door of the apartment in Friedrichshain.
There was no answer for several moments, then an anxious voice called out, Who is it?
Its John Russell, he shouted back.
The door opened to reveal a haggard-looking Frau Wiesner. Im sorry, she said, looking down the stairs behind him. Come in, please.
There was no sign of the girls.
Im afraid there will be no lesson today, she said. And perhaps no more lessons for a while. My husband has been arrested. They have taken him to a camp. Sachsenhausen, we think. A friend of a friend saw him there.
When? When was he arrested? What was he arrested for?
They came here on Monday. The middle of the night, so it was really Tuesday. She sat down abruptly, as if she needed all her strength to tell the story. They kept hitting him, she almost whispered, a solitary tear running down her right cheek. He wasnt resisting. He kept saying, Im coming with youwhy are you hitting me? They just laughed, called him names. Called the children names. I only thank God that Albert wasnt here when they came.
Russell sat down on the settee beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. Frau. . . . he started to say. I should know your name by now.
Eva.
Did they give a reason for his arrest?
Not to me. Our friends are trying to find out whether there was a reason . . . not a real reason, of course . . . but surely they have to say something, write something down in their record books. She looked at him almost imploringly, as if their having a reason would make a difference.
Where are the girls? he asked. And wheres Albert?
The girls are with friends down the road. They love your lessons, but today . . . they couldn't. . . .
Of course not.
And Albert. . . . He came back on Tuesday morning, heard what had happened, and ran straight out again. I havent seen him since.
The Gestapo havent been back?
No. If they came back, I could ask them about Felix. I dont know what to do. Some friends say kick up a fuss, or youll never be told anything. Others say that if you do it makes matters worse, and that Felix will be released eventually, like Albert was. And I wouldn't know where to go if I wanted to make a fuss. The Alex? If I go there and demand to know where Felix is and why theyve arrested him they might arrest me, and then wholl look after Albert and the girls?
That wouldn't be a good idea, Russell agreed. He wondered what would be.
Have the Conways gone? she asked.
Im afraid they have. Theyd been at sea for at least 36 hours. But I can try talking to someone at the Embassy. I doubt whether theyll be able to do anything, but its worth a try.
Theyre not allowed visitors in Sachsenhausen, she said. We found that out when Albert was there. Not family or friends that is. But perhaps theyd let you visit him. You could say he owed you money for the girls lessons, and you need his signature for somethinga check on a foreign bank account or something like that.
You have a foreign bank account?
No, of course not, but they think we havethey think we all have them.
Russell winced. What could he do? The embassy certainly, but how much would a Jewish doctors kindness to a now-departed colleague count for in the grand scheme of things? Not much. He could go to the Alexor, more worryingly, the Gestapo HQ on Prinz Albrechtstrasseand make some polite inquiries. Not as a journalist, of course. In fact, Eva Wiesners suggestion was a good one. He could say that Wiesner owed him for the girls lessons, and that the Jewish swine wasnt going to get out of it by running away to a Kz. That should give the bastards a good laugh.
And then there was Jens, who now owed him a favor. A last resort, Russell decided. That was one favor he wanted to keep in reserve.
Ill make some inquiries, he told her. Tactfully. I wont stir up any resentment. Ill try and find out where he is and why hes been arrested. And if theres any chance of arranging a visit.
She gave him a despairing look. Why is it that you can see how wrong this is, and so many people cant?
I like to think most people can, he said. And that theyre just too afraid to speak up. But lately. . . . He spread his hands. If I find out anything definite Ill be back to let you know. Otherwise Ill come on Friday at the usual time.
Thank you, Mr. Russell. You are a real friend. Another solitary tear crawled down her cheek, as if her body were conserving the supply for future contingencies.
As he walked back to the car Russell found himself hoping he was the friend she thought he was. He had considered giving her his address, but there was no way he could keep one or more of the Wiesners in his apartment. If Frau Heidegger didn't report it, one of his neighbors would.
Driving down Neue Konigstrasse he decided on visiting the Gestapo first. Another voluntary encounter with the Nazi authorities, he told himself, would weaken any suspicions they might hold with regard to McKinleys missing papers. And if they handed out prizes for wishful thinking. . . .
He parked behind a shiny, swastika-embossed limousine on Prinz Albrecht Strasse, and approached the impressive portals of the State Police HQ. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the steps and in through the revolving door. As usual, the Fuhrer was up there in his frame, beady eyes tracking Russell round the room like some scary inversion of the Mona Lisayou knew what he was thinking.
Russell explained his plight to the receptionist: the Jew, the debt, the joke about Wiesner running away to a Kz. She laughe
d, and directed him to the appropriate office for Ongoing Cases. Another receptionist, another laugh, and he was on his way to Completed Cases, which sounded bad for Felix Wiesner.
The officer in charge was in a good mood. It took him less than a minute to find the file on Felix Wiesner, and less than that to read it. Youre out of luck, he said. The kikes in Sachsenhausen, and he wont be back. Your moneys gone.
What did the bastard do? Russell asked.
Gave a German girl an abortion. Thats twenty-five years, if he lasts that long.
Russell felt his heart sink, but managed not to show it. Win some, lose some, he said. Thanks for your help.
He made his way back to the entrance, half-expecting to hear muffled screams from the rumored torture chambers in the basement, but, as in the SD HQ around the corner, there was only the whisper of typewriters to break the silence.
He left the car where it was, walked up Wilhelmstrasse to the British Embassy, and sat beneath the picture of the latest Kingthe third in two yearswhile he waited for Martin Unsworth to see him. It proved a waste of time. Unsworth had heard about the Wiesners from Doug Conway, but felt no dramatic compulsion to risk his career on their behalf. He pointed out, reasonably enough, that a British Embassy could hardly involve itself in the domestic criminal matters of a host nation. He added, just as reasonably, that the host nation would, at best, ignore any request in such a matter and, at worst, make use of it for propaganda purposes. Russell hid his fury, elicited a promise from Unsworth to investigate the Wiesners visa applications, and then thumped the wooden banister so hard on his way down that he feared for a moment hed broken his hand. Walking back down Wilhelmstrasse, surrounded by billowing swastikas, he simmered with useless rage.
Back at Effishe seemed to be living there at the momenthe told her what had happened. She advised him to ring JensTheres a human being in there somewhere, she said. Though you have to dig a bit.
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