'Who are you?' rapped out one of the men. 'And what do you want?' 'I'm the owner's brother-in-law,' Russell said. This didn't seem the moment to admit that he was no longer married to Thomas's sister.
'Well you'll have to take your turn. Sit there.'
Russell did as he was told, straining his ears to hear the conversation taking place in the inner office above the usual clatter of the presses. Thomas seemed to be doing most of the talking. 'I have explained all this to Groening,' he said with exaggerated patience. 'I cannot fill my government orders if you people keep threatening to decimate my workforce. If I were to lose all the people on this list I dread to think what my output would shrink to.'
A softer voice interjected, one that Russell could not quite decipher. The one word he recognised was juden, and only because it was repeated several times.
'That's nonsense,' Thomas replied, raising his voice a little. 'The Jews I employ are treated as they should be. They have separate toilets and washrooms, and they work the sort of hours which such people should work. You and I could argue for hours about how these particular Jews managed to make themselves essential to the running of this business, but that would not make the slightest difference to the fact that they are. Once the war is won, and I am not up to my ears in urgent government contracts, I will happily take them down to the station and load them on a train for the East myself. But until that day comes...'
The Gestapo man was not convinced. The Reichsminister had decreed that Berlin should become judenfrei, and the process was now underway. It was irreversible. If one factory owner was granted exemptions, they would all want them, and nothing would be achieved. Herr Schade would simply have to find other workers. He would have no trouble getting hold of Russian prisoners, and they could learn anything that Jews could learn.
'If you persist with this nonsense,' Thomas told him, 'I shall have to take the matter up with Gruppenfuhrer Wohlauf.'
This name induced a few moments' silence, and even pricked the ears of the two Gestapo men in the outer office. When their superior in the next room resumed talking it was in a quieter, more conciliatory tone. Russell was impressed. He knew that Thomas had been deliberately widening his circle of influential acquaintances, but Wohlauf was one of Heydrich's proteges, and hardly a name to be taken in vain.
Two Gestapo officers emerged, the older one thin with glasses and a pale angry face, the younger one plumpish and harassed-looking. The former gave Russell a passing glare, and half paused in his stride, as if the need for a scapegoat had been both recognised and deferred in a few split seconds. All four of them passed out through the door, and seconds later the engines of their two cars burst into simultaneous life.
Russell walked into the inner office, and found Thomas at the window, a fist massaging his left temple.
'Wohlauf?' Russell asked with mock incredulity.
Thomas gave him a wry smile. 'Would you believe I had dinner with him and his wife last week? Lotte is in the same Bund Deutscher Madel group as his older daughter, and she found out a few months ago that Papa has a passion for sailing. I eventually dug up a mutual acquaintance and engineered a chance meeting. We may be going up to Rugen Island together in the spring.'
'The sacrifices we make.'
'He's not such a bad chap really. Well, he is; but for a Gruppenfuhrer in the SD he doesn't come across too badly. There's none of the usual obsession with Jews - he seems to despise all races more or less equally.' 'Will he play ball if you need him to?'
'God knows. I hope I don't have to ask.'
'What was it about this time?'
'A list of our Jewish workers for deportation. You know some of them live on the premises? Eleven single men, all over fifty. They were thrown out of their apartments in Wedding and Moabit so we put up some bunks in one of the old storehouses. Nothing special, I'm afraid - I have to keep convincing the Gestapo that I hate the Jews as much as I need them. Anyway, some bright spark down at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse dug up some regulation forbidding Jews from staying overnight at their workplaces, and decided it was a good excuse for putting my lot on the next train.'
'But you've saved them?'
'For the moment. Untangling all the relevant red tape will take me the rest of the morning, but it should be okay. For my eleven, that is. All it really means is that eleven others will be chosen in their place.'
There was no reply to that.
'Is this just a social call?' Thomas asked.
'Yes. We tried to ring you yesterday before I remembered that you were away. How are Hanna's family?'
'Good.'
'No news from Joachim?'
'Nothing for weeks,' Thomas said breezily. 'Look, John, I've got to deal with this business. Why don't we have lunch - how about Wednesday? The Russischer Hof, like we used to. One o'clock.'
'Make it one-thirty. And don't bring along any Gruppenfuhrers.'
'Everyone needs a Gruppenfuhrer, John.'
Seeing Thomas almost always lifted Russell's spirits, and watching the Gestapo sweep out in a collective temper-tantrum had lifted them higher than usual. And despite sitting for the better part of an hour on a hard wooden seat in a tram that probably pre-dated Bismarck, he still felt like smiling when he reached Wilhelmstrasse.
Dr Schmidt soon brought him back to earth. Klin had fallen, Ribbentrop's spokesman announced with a repulsive smirk, and the map behind him, though less crowded with sweeping arrows than Promi's version, showed how important that might be. The left wing of the German forces closing on Moscow would soon be due north of the city, and poised to sweep around behind it. Another 'biggest encirclement battle of all time' seemed on the cards.
The main business of the day, to which Schmidt turned with some reluctance, was the conference to renew the Anti-Comintern Pact. It was due to begin on the following day, and delegations from all the allies, both willing and reluctant, would be arriving today or tomorrow morning. The official renewal ceremony was tomorrow afternoon, and Foreign Minister Ribbentrop would be making the keynote speech on Wednesday. This would also be broadcast on the radio and printed in full in the newspapers.
'The word "ubiquitous" springs to mind,' Ralph Morrison whispered to Russell.
'Not to mention "unavoidable".'
The Fuhrer, Schmidt continued, would be arriving on Thursday for important consultations with the various presidents and prime ministers.
'He's only just left,' an American further down the table muttered.
Schmidt glared at the guilty party, and concluded with the announcement of a special European postage stamp, released to celebrate the continent's new-found unity.
'United in despair,' Morrison said as he got up. 'You know it's Thanksgiving on Thursday. I wish to Christ I was back in the States.'
Russell was still staring at the map, and the red dot marked Klin. 'They might still do it, you know,' he said quietly. 'And God help us if they do.'
After the press conference was over, he avoided the Press Club, settling for a bowl of potato soup in one of the Potsdam Station buffets. Lately, he was finding the company of his fellow journalists harder and harder to stomach, probably because he saw his own cynical impotence reflected in theirs. What was he going to send off today? Anything resembling the truth was verboten, and he, like his colleagues, had turned into as much of a propagandist as Dr Goebbels, cherry-picking whichever publishable stories suited his own agenda. He liked to think he was pursuing a deeper truth, but in the here and now it was all about manipulation. Would the American people be more likely to support intervention if the Russians looked close to defeat, or if it looked as if the Germans had been stopped? He wasn't at all sure. In fact, he suspected that at this particular moment it didn't matter a damn what story he filed.
His next stop was the Abwehr building on Tirpitz Ufer. He was simply hoping to drop off the translations, but Colonel Piekenbrock, catching sight of Russell through his open office door, beckoned him in. 'Good,' he said. 'Saved me the trouble of sending fo
r you. The Admiral wants to see you.'
'What for?' Russell asked with some irritation. He didn't like the idea of being 'sent for', and it was hard to imagine such an invitation boding well.
'You will hear that from him,' Piekenbrock said calmly, picking up the internal phone. 'Let me see if he's back from lunch.'
He wasn't, and Russell was left to cool his heels in one of the conference rooms. The windows overlooked the canal, where another long chain of coal barges was chugging slowly westward. Unless of course it was the same one going round in circles, intent on convincing Berliners that fuel supplies for the winter were plentiful.
Perhaps the Admiral wanted to thank him for his services, and wish him well in American exile.
Perhaps Hitler had a mistress named Sarah Finkelstein.
Russell reminded himself of his golden rule, that official requests should never be met with a definite yes or no.
It was almost three o'clock when an aide came to fetch him. The ancient lifts were out of order, so they walked up three flights to the top floor, where Canaris had his spacious office. He was sitting behind a huge desk, but got up to shake Russell's hand, gesturing him towards one end of the large black leather sofa. After Russell had refused the offer of a cigarette from a carved wooden box, Canaris sat down on the other end.
He looked older than his fifty-four years, his face lined by a sailor's long exposure to the sun. He also had a way of glancing sideways at those he addressed which was slightly unnerving. Russell's first impression of the Admiral, from their only previous meeting, had been of a man who knew a lot more than he actually understood, and who wasn't particularly sharp on the uptake. But Canaris had kept Heydrich and his rival Sicherheitsdienst at bay for almost seven years, which if nothing else suggested a certain talent for bureaucratic in-fighting.
'Herr Russell, we are pleased with your work for us. Your liaison work with the Americans, that is. I'm sure your translations are also excellent, but they do not concern me.'
Russell nodded his appreciation of the compliments.
'Now, it seems very likely that Japan is about to expand its operations in the Pacific. Exactly how and where we do not know, but it's hard to think of any meaningful Japanese move which the United States will not regard as a casus belli. And if America is drawn into a war with Japan, I am certain that Roosevelt will see to it that war is also declared on Germany.' He paused for a second, inviting Russell to comment.
'I can't argue with that,' Russell agreed.
'So your time in Germany is coming to an end?'
'So it would seem.'
'Well, I have a proposition for you. I would like you to consider continuing with the work you've been doing - that is, acting as a liaison between the Abwehr and the United States government.'
'But there will be no American government presence in Berlin.'
'Of course not. You will have to leave Germany. But I do want to stress how important your role might be. There are many Germans who would welcome an understanding with the Western powers that allows them to continue the war in the East. You must remember the Fuhrer's offer of peace to Great Britain last summer. It was genuinely meant, I assure you.'
'So where?' Russell wanted to know.
'Switzerland is the obvious choice - easy access for both us and the Americans. You will have to leave your current job, and set yourself up as an independent - I believe "freelance" is the English word. Zurich would be best, but Basle or Berne if you insist. We will pay all your living expenses, and...'
'But that...'
'And of course we would ensure that your friend Fraulein Koenen was allowed to visit you on a regular basis.'
Russell was suddenly lost for words.
'This would be a secret arrangement,' the Admiral went on. 'It would be vital to ensure that other intelligence services - even other German services - were unaware of your role.'
Like the Sicherheitsdienst, Russell thought. Them and them alone, in all likelihood. Which was one good reason for saying no. Looking like a well-paid German stooge was another, but if the Americans also offered financial support he could claim independence. And not to be separated from Effi for however many years the war went on - that had to go in the yes column. He might even be able to get her out on a permanent basis - the Nazis would still have her family as hostages to her good behaviour. 'When would this happen?' he asked.
'Two weeks, maybe three.' Canaris shifted in his seat, as if his back was giving him trouble. 'First, I would appreciate your help in another matter.' Russell's face must have betrayed him.
'There is no need for concern. This only involves a trip to Prague and the delivery of a message. Much the same task as you performed in Copenhagen a year or so ago.'
'I was already going to Copenhagen. And the message was for my own government. Is that the case this time?'
'No, it is not. This message will be in code, and I cannot divulge its contents. I can assure you that it has no bearing on the outcome of the war. You will not be compromising any loyalty you might feel to England or America.'
'But why me?' asked Russell. 'And who's the message for?'
'His name is Johann Grashof,' Canaris said, ignoring the first question. 'He runs the Abwehr office in Prague responsible for Hungary and the Balkans. A good and honourable man,' he added, surprising Russell. 'I have known him for many years.'
'You haven't explained why I've been chosen.'
'Because I believe I can trust you in this matter,' Canaris said. 'Your status as an outsider raises you above the fray, so to speak. You understand?'
Russell thought he did. This was a message that Canaris, for reasons unknown, could not trust to any of his own agents. Which was hardly encouraging. Russell asked the obvious question: 'Is the Swiss arrangement contingent on my delivering this message?'
Canaris looked away, but his words were equally direct: 'Yes, I'm afraid it is. We will fly you there and back,' he added, as if Russell's main objection to the mission might be the number of hours he would have to spend on a train. 'With any luck you'll be back within twenty-four hours.'
'Have you a date in mind?'
'A week today. December the first.'
Russell considered for a moment. 'Would there be any chance of my son visiting me in Switzerland?'
'I don't see why not.'
'It's a tempting offer,' Russell admitted. 'Can I have a few days to think it over?'
'Not too many. I need an answer by Wednesday.'
They shook hands again, and Canaris himself took Russell to the top of the stairs. He descended slowly, wondering what to do. The prize seemed great, the level of risk, for all of Canaris's blandishments, essentially unknown.
Outside the building, he turned left along the canal. What risks could there be? What could a message from the chief of German Military Intelligence to one of his officers contain that might threaten its bearer? Details of a plot to assassinate Hitler? Unlikely. Details of a scheme to undermine Heydrich? More likely, particularly since the destination was Prague, now the capital of Heydrich's own little fiefdom.
It wasn't somewhere Russell wanted to go. His last trip to the old Czech capital had seen him fleeing down alleys with the local Gestapo in close pursuit, suspected by the local resistance, and forced to depart the city with what seemed like undignified haste. Prague might be beautiful, but over the last few weeks Heydrich's crackdown had reportedly turned it into the most dangerous city in occupied Europe. If there were corpses swinging on the Charles Bridge lamp-posts, Russell wouldn't be at all surprised.
But - and it was a big but - when Canaris had offered him the chance of seeing Effi on a regular basis, he had suddenly realised how afraid he was of the alternative, of a separation that might last years, or even decades. Avoiding that fate was surely worth a few risks.
Shooting for GPU began on the following Monday, so Effi had stayed at home that day, studying an early draft of the script for Betrayal which Marssolek had sent her. It was depress
ing in the extreme, and seemed - as Russell had suspected it would be - almost immune to interpretation. The thought of it even being made filled her with anger, as did the realisation that most of her fellow actresses would play the part exactly as the makers intended.
Was she being over-sensitive? Surely most of her fellow countrymen would see through this evil nonsense as easily as she did. Her friends would find the storyline laughable. But then her memory slipped back to the conversation with Annaliese Huiskes in her hospital office, and the hundreds of Jews being shot by ordinary German men in Russia. Those men must have found the demonisation of the Jews believable, or they wouldn't be able to act the way they did. And movies must have played a part, however small, in that process, in making such terrible crimes not only possible but almost, it seemed, a matter of routine. The cost might come later, chorusing 'I can't do it anymore' in a Berlin hospital ward with your fellow criminals, but by then it was too late for everyone, murderers and victims alike.
She couldn't do this film, Effi realised. And she couldn't explain her refusal on the grounds that it would harm her career. She would have to tell Marssolek the truth, or something very like it. If they stopped offering her parts, then so be it. She would rather get a job on the trams than play Goebbels' idea of a Jewess.
When Russell got home he found Effi on the sofa and their living room littered with paper aeroplanes. 'You were right,' she said. 'This particular script was not susceptible to a human interpretation.'
'But it makes good paper aeroplanes?'
'Excellent paper aeroplanes.'
'Don't they want it back?'
'I shall say I left it on a tram. What can they do?'
Russell lifted her bare feet and sat down with them in his lap. 'I've had an offer,' he said. 'We've had an offer,' he corrected himself. He explained the arrangement that Canaris had in mind, and was pleased to see the gleam of hope in Effi's eyes.
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