'So how did you come to do this work?' Hornak asked, leaning back against a desk and carefully sipping at the scalding tea.
'I'm a journalist. We get asked to help. Times like these, it's hard to say no.'
'I am sure many do.'
'Maybe,' Russell agreed non-committally. Was Hornak complimenting him on his commitment or doubting his story? He took a sip of the sweet tea and burnt his tongue.
'And you believe the Americans are serious?' the Czech said.
'Serious, yes. But whether they know what they're doing, I'm not so sure.'
Hornak raised an eyebrow. 'Should you not be?'
Approaching footsteps saved Russell from answering. It was Bejbl. A single interrogative syllable from Hornak unleashed a torrent of Czech, none of which Russell understood. Bejbl had given him a single dismissive glance, which seemed like good news.
It was. 'We have caught the informer,' Hornak eventually told him in English. 'He was in the cafe and saw me arrive. He was seen using the public phone around the corner. Calling Petschek Palace.' Hornak came over and gave Russell a pat on the back, as if he was congratulating him on his acquittal. 'And the Germans are all over the New Town,' he added. 'So it's a good thing you came with me.'
Bejbl was talking again, having poured himself what was left of the tea. Hornak offered Russell a further translation. 'The informer claims the Gestapo have threatened to take his sister.'
'What about the shots?' Russell asked.
Hornak asked Bejbl, and translated the answer. 'A man was shot in the leg. He panicked and tried to run. Not one of our people,' he added dismissively. He put his empty mug down. 'We are going to see the informer now. A walk up the line, not far. I think you would be wise to come with us. Give the Germans time to pick up a few suspects.'
It seemed like a good idea, or at least the better of two bad ideas. He might get to judge how effective Hornak and his people were. 'All right,' he said.
They let themselves out into the silent yard and walked along beside the rails to the bridge beyond the station throat. Hugging the walls of the short cutting beyond they emerged into a wide expanse of tracks, carriage sidings to one side of the running lines, a large goods yard to the other. A creamy three-quarter moon had risen behind the hill ahead, edging the rails with pale light. One line of carriages was lit up, cleaners at work within, and a locomotive was at work somewhere in the goods yard, its occasional stuttering puff s interspersed with the clanking of buffers. Hornak and Bejbl walked on up the slight incline, talking softly in Czech. A brightly-lit signal box lay ahead, and as they passed it the signalman leaned out of his window to share what sounded like a joke.
A locomotive came under the bridge up ahead. It cut across their path and into the goods yard, the faces of its crew bright orange in the firebox glow. The engine seemed to be free-wheeling, not so much expelling steam as leaking it.
They walked under another bridge and round behind a line of stabled engines. A small door opened into a large brick building, where a ring of silent and enormous-looking locomotives faced each other around an indoor turn-table. Another door led into a repair shop, where two more engines stood astride deep inspection pits. A final door and they were out in the open again, heading for a small building with a large chimney. Mounds of sand were piled either side of it, and a young man with a cloth cap was waiting by the entrance, a burning cigarette cupped in one hand.
The interior was larger than Russell had imagined, and surprisingly light given that the moon and a single bare bulb supplied the only illumination. There were three other men inside. Two of Hornak's men were just behind the door; the informer, an ordinary-looking man of around thirty with short dark hair, thin moustache and glasses, was standing in the sand-drying pan. He was visibly shaking, and the sight of Hornak did nothing to calm him down. Hornak's first question evoked a long but surprisingly passionless answer, as if the man had already lost hope.
Hornak turned to his four comrades with a query. Any reason to spare him? was Russell's later guess. Now he saw only the nodding heads, heard the involuntary whimper of the condemned man.
Hornak looked at his watch and said something that started with the Czech word for 'ten'. One of the others started talking, and soon they were all at it, apparently oblivious to both Russell and the informer.
About ten minutes had gone by when the sound of a train reached his ears. As it grew louder, Hornak put out his hand, and one of the others handed him an army pistol. Hornak walked onto the sand-dryer and said something to the informer. He started to protest, but suddenly the energy seemed to drain away from him, and he sunk to his knees. The train was almost on them now, rasping and roaring its way up the slope. Russell saw Hornak pull the trigger and saw the body jerk forward, but he hardly heard the shot.
He just stood there, tongue suddenly dry in his mouth, watching the dark blood seep into the sand. Outside a long line of wagons clanked by, the frenetic breath of the locomotive fading into the distance.
'Jan here will see you get back to your hotel,' Hornak shouted over the din. 'He is a student - speaks good English. And his brother is a taxi driver.' He shifted the gun to his left hand to offer his right.
Russell shook it, but his eyes betrayed him.
'We shall look after his sister,' Hornak said simply. He gave Russell one last penetrating look, and turned away.
'Come,' the young man said, and led the way outside.
The last of the wagons were rolling by, a guard with a glowing pipe standing out on his brake van's veranda.
'How far are we going?' Russell asked once the din had begun to recede.
'Only a few minutes,' Jan said. 'A bad business,' he added, as they climbed the steps towards the road.
'Same time every night,' Russell said, more to himself than his companion.
'The Ostrava freight? It always leave at one. Night-workers use it to check their clocks.'
They walked on.
'What was his name?' Russell asked after a while.
'Zameenik.'
'What will they do with the body?'
The young man gave him a surprised glance, as if this was a particularly stupid question. 'Burn it in a locomotive.'
Jan's brother Karel was due to start his shift at six, and his wife refused to wake him before five, so Russell slept for a couple of hours in one of the parlour armchairs, long enough to stiffen up without feeling noticeably rested. Karel was obviously several years older than Jan, and a good deal heavier. He seemed remarkably cheerful, though, for someone who started work at five in the morning. 'What's the story?' Jan asked. 'If we get stopped, I mean. Where did we pick you up?'
'Do you know anyone in America?' Russell asked. 'Or England?'
'A cousin in London, I think.'
'Say I brought you news from him, and stayed the night.'
'What news?'
They concocted a story between them as Karel drove the Skoda towards the city centre, but didn't need it: the streets were still mostly empty of Czechs, and the Germans had apparently tired of driving round in circles.
Russell walked through the doors of the Europa with some trepidation, half-expecting leather coats in the lobby. There was only a dozing receptionist though, and Russell managed to extract the room key from its hook without waking him. He used the stairs rather than the squeaky lift and let himself into his room. No one was waiting for him. The Gestapo was either ignorant of his participation in the previous night's fun and games, or they were still gathering witness statements. No one in the cafe had seen him, he told himself. The pursuing Germans hadn't seen his face. The chances of being recognized and reported by a Czech passer-by were infinitesimal.
That said, a swift departure from Prague still seemed the prudent course. There was a train at nine, he remembered.
He took a bath, packed, and stood by the window watching the traffic increase. At eight o'clock he went downstairs to check out. The day receptionist was busy with a pastry and had a huge cup of
coffee steaming beside her. She took Russell's crowns, stamped his bill and handed him a crumb-flaked copy.
The sky outside was an innocent shade of blue, the temperature close to perfect. He walked down Jindoisska and Dladzena Streets to Masaryk Station, and finally found a German-speaking clerk willing to change his ticket. Out on the concourse he watched prospective passengers walk to their trains with no apparent scrutiny. The usual pair of German soldiers were chatting by the entrance, but there was no sign of the Gestapo.
He boarded the train a couple of minutes before departure, and settled himself in an empty first class compartment. Two German officers swam into view, giving his heart an unwelcome jolt, but moved on to claim the adjoining compartment. They were going home on leave, Russell overheard, and pleased about it.
The train jerked into motion, and Russell sat by the window, retracing his walk from the night before. Both goods yard and locomotive depot were hives of activity, one locomotive pumping smoke as it eased forward in the shed yard. He couldn't help wondering whether it was just burning coal.
He thought about Hornak, and about the Americans. Could the people he'd met in New York really be thinking beyond a war that hadn't even begun? Were they really so worried about the communists? And more to the point, did they really believe that there were people out there who would fight Hitler for them, and then turn round and save them from Stalin? If so, they were dreaming. As far as Russell could see, the only people in Europe with the stomach for a fight were the communists.
Not his problem, he told himself. Hornak and the Americans would doubtless get whatever they could from each other, and any benefit the rest of the world derived from their arrangement was up to the gods. He gazed out of the window at the Bohemian countryside until his eyelids began to droop.
He was woken by an official at the new and largely specious border between Reich and Protectorate, but not required to leave his seat. As the train wound its way round the curves of the upper Elbe he noticed the stream of overladen lorries heading into Germany. How to win friends and influence people, he thought. Stage One - invade their country. Stage Two - steal everything they owned.
The train pulled into Dresden soon after eleven-thirty, and Russell decided on impulse to break his journey. He checked his suitcase into the left luggage and took a cab to the city's Museum of Hygiene. Several years earlier a friend had told him how wonderful it was, and now it seemed like something he could bring his son to one weekend, something German which they could both admire and share.
Walking through the rooms he could see what his friend had meant. There were imaginative exhibits on anatomy, physiology and nutrition, a life-size transparent man whose organs lit up when the appropriate button was pressed. There were models demonstrating muscular movements, a room devoted to vocal organs with an explanation of how tones and timbres were produced, an apparatus for testing the lung capacity of any visitor willing to blow through a cardboard tube.
There was also, as Russell discovered on turning a corner, a new group of exhibits, put together with the same loving care and painstaking attention to detail as all the others, explaining the biological inferiority of the Jew.
He turned on his heel and sought the way out to fresher air.
Another cab carried him back to the station, where a Berlin train was waiting to leave. As it gathered speed towards the capital he sat back, eyes closed, and watched Zameenik's body pitch forward into the sand. The war has already begun, he thought. And everyone has lost.
Leafleteers
The Berlin train proved slower than advertised, spending several long interludes becalmed in the Saxon countryside. A harassed inspector explained that military transports had priority during the summer manoeuvres, and suggested that anyone with a complaint should address it to the General Staff. After that, the rumblings of discontent subsided to a mere murmur.
The train arrived at Anhalter Station soon after seven. The Berlin weather had turned in Russell's absence: the pavements were wet from a recent shower and a grey pall of cloud hung over the city. The taxi rank on Koniggratzer Strasse was bare, so he walked the kilometre and a half to Neuenburger Strasse.
Frau Heidegger had company - another portierfrau from down the street - which were something of a relief. She welcomed him home, passed him his only message, and walked somewhat unsteadily back to the half-empty bottle of schnapps they were sharing. Standing by the only available window in the downstairs hallway, Russell struggled to decipher her scrawl. 'Frau Grostein has found your missing person,' it read. 'If you call in during the day a meeting can be arranged.' He should have asked when the message arrived, he realized, but decided not to risk a second encounter.
There was no message from Kuzorra, which disappointed him. He had hoped the sighting at Silesian Station was a breakthrough, that Kuzorra would have more news for him by this time. Maybe he had, and was just waiting for a visit.
There was nothing from the SD either, no neatly-compiled dossier of lies for him to pass on to the Soviets. They were probably having trouble sorting fiction from truth.
He walked down to the telephone, picked the earpiece and dialled Effi's number.
'Hello,' the familiar voice answered.
'It's me.'
'Hello you. Where are you?'
'At Neuenburger Strasse. I just got here.'
'How was Prague?'
'Interesting. How are things?'
'Fine, but I'm really tired, John. I was on my way to bed when the telephone rang.'
'Oh.'
'I'm sorry, but you wouldn't enjoy me this evening. I've been grumpy all day. These five o'clock starts are killing me.'
'Tomorrow, then.'
'Of course. But come as early as you can. We're shooting on Saturday as well. We're so behind. The producer's pulling out large clumps of his hair, and he can't afford to lose any.'
'Okay. I love you.'
'You too.'
Russell took the suitcase up to his rooms and dumped it on the bed. The apartment matched his mood, which didn't bode well for an evening in. It was only ten to nine - the Adlon Bar would still be busy.
The blanket of cloud was hastening the light's departure. The Hanomag started first go, and he drove it down to Belle Alliance, intent on heading up Wilhelmstrasse. Reaching the circle he changed his mind, and followed the gently snaking Landwehrkanal to Lutzow-Platz before cutting north across the western end of the Tiergarten. The address Sarah Grostein had given him was an elegant three-storey building on Altonaer Strasse, between the elevated Stadtbahn and the bridge over the Spree. He parked a few doors down and walked up towards it. Light showed around the drawn curtains of two windows on the first floor, but the ground floor was dark. He dropped the lion-headed knocker against its base a couple of times, but there was no response from inside. He thought about knocking louder, but his instincts told him it was bad idea.
He walked back to the car. Looking up as he opened the door he saw the curtains twitch open, revealing a silhouetted head and shoulders. It looked like the SS officer he had seen outside the Universum, but he couldn't be sure.
Call in during the day, the message had said. He had assumed she'd meant the day of the message, but he had been wrong.
The curtain closed again, and Russell waited a few moments before driving off. He had parked between streetlights, and didn't think he'd been seen, but he didn't want to advertise his presence by starting the engine. Let them get back to whatever it was they were doing.
In motion once more, he followed the Spree to Sommer Strasse, cut past the Brandenburg Gate into Pariser Platz, and pulled up in front of the Adlon. There were hardly any cars on Unter den Linden - in fact the traffic had been light all evening. Commandeered by the army, he supposed, and now axle-deep in Silesian mud. 'But not you' he told the Hanomag, tapping its steering-wheel.
The Adlon Bar was not exactly hopping - a party of lugubrious-looking Swedish businessmen, a mixed group of SS and Kriegsmarine officers, a spattering o
f lone foreigners staring into their glasses and pining for the days when a night in Berlin spelled entertainment. And in the corner, playing rummy, Dick Normanton and Jack Slaney.
Their steins were full, so Russell took them a couple of chasers. 'Who's winning?' he asked, just as Normanton went down with a triumphant flourish.
'The bloody English are winning,' Slaney complained, writing it down on the score sheet. 'That's two marks and forty pfennigs,' he said.
'Last of the big-time gamblers,' Russell murmured. 'Can I join in?'
'You'll need twenty pfennigs,' Normanton told him, shuffling the cards.
'So, what's new?' Russell asked. 'I only just got back from Prague,' he added in explanation.
'How are the Czechs doing?' Slaney asked.
'As well as can be expected.'
'There's more trouble in Danzig,' Normanton said, dealing out the cards. 'The Poles won't let the Danzig Germans sell their herrings and margarine in Poland until the Danzig Germans accept their new customs officers. So the Danzig Germans are muttering darkly about opening their frontier with East Prussia and selling the stuff there.'
'Are the East Prussians short of herrings and margarine?' Russell asked.
Normanton laughed. 'Who knows?'
'Who cares?' Slaney added, arranging his cards.
'So we're waiting to see who backs down?' Russell asked.
'That's about it. But I can't see Hitler going to war over herring and margarine. It's not exactly a rallying cry, is it?'
'The important stuff 's happening in Moscow,' Slaney said. 'Molotov met the German Ambassador this morning, and was a damn sight more affable with him than he was with the French and British ambassadors yesterday.'
'Any hard information on what they discussed?' Russell asked.
'None. Lots of rumours though: the Germans are willing to give the Soviets a free hand in the Baltic states, they'll share Poland with the Soviets if the Poles make the mistake of starting a war. According to our man in Moscow, the German Ambassador had the nerve to tell Molotov that the anti-Comintern Pact isn't aimed at the Soviets.'
Silesian Station (2008) Page 16
