Zoo Station

by David Downing

  Russell stopped and watched a tram cross the intersection, bell clanging. Why was he feeling so angry this morning? Was it the kindertransport and the Wiesner girls? Or just six years of accumulated disgust? Whatever it was it served no purpose.

  Reaching the Café Uhlandeck he sat at one of the outside tables and stared back down the Ku’damm in search of Effi’s familiar silhouette. He had met her a few days before Christmas 1933, while researching a piece on Leni Riefenstahl for a Hollywood gossip magazine. At a studio party someone had pointed out a slim, black-haired woman in her late twenties, told Russell that her name was Effi Koenen, and that she had appeared alongside Riefenstahl before the actress had turned director.

  Effi’s part in that film, as she’d been only too happy to inform him, had consisted of ‘five lines, two smiles, one pout and a dignified exit.’ She had thought Riefenstahl a good actress, but had hated Triumph of the Will for its humourlessness. Russell had asked her out to dinner, and rather to his astonishment she had accepted. They had got on wonderfully – in the restaurant, on the half-drunken walk home to her flat, in her large soft bed. Five years later, they still did.

  Effi’s flat was a couple of blocks north of the Ku’damm, a three room affair which her wealthy parents had bought in the early 1920s from a victim of the Great Inflation, and given to her as a twenty-fifth birthday present. Her acting career had been moderately successful – a film here, a play there, a musical if nothing else was on offer – without making her rich or particularly famous. She was occasionally recognised on the street when Russell was with her, and almost always for the part she had played in a 1934 film, the wife of a stormtrooper beaten to death by communists. That had been a ‘seventeen line, one smile, one scream, dignified-at-funeral’ part.

  She was currently appearing in Barbarossa, a musical biography of the twelfth century Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick I. As one of his generals’ wives, she sang part of the joyous send-off when they left for the Crusades, and part of the lament for those who failed to come home. Like most of the cast, she wasn’t much of a singer, but no one had bothered to include musical ability, a decent script or memorable songs in the production. It was, as one of the early Berlin reviews put it, ‘a hymn to national consciousness.’

  Much to Effi’s disgust it had pulled in large audiences, both in Berlin during the weeks leading up to Christmas and across the Reich during the holiday season itself. A second season in Berlin was beginning that night and Effi expected the seats to be full again – ‘All those who couldn’t believe how bad it was the first time will be coming back to make sure.’

  Russell hadn’t seen her for almost a fortnight, which seemed a long time. They generally spent as much of the weekend together as their – mostly her – work allowed, along with at least one night in midweek and an unpredictable number of lunches and afternoons. She was fond of saying that her three-year marriage to a now-famous actor had left her with a love of living alone, and had never suggested that Russell move in with her. He told himself and everyone else that he was happy, more than happy, with their days and nights together, and happy to spend the other days and nights without her. And most of the time he believed it. Just occasionally he found himself thinking that love was a full-time occupation, and that loving someone was resenting each hour apart. He did love Effi, from her long raven hair to her small brown toes. He loved everything about her, he thought, looking at his watch, except for her complete inability to arrive anywhere on time.

  It was 12.25 when she finally appeared. She was wearing the black overcoat that almost reached her ankles, a new crimson scarf wrapped around her neck, chin and mouth, and the Russian fur hat she had bought in Moscow ten years before. Yet even trussed up like a mummy she turned the heads of male passers-by. ‘I’ve got a cold,’ was the first thing she said once they’d embraced. ‘I need soup.’

  Russell suggested going inside, but she refused. ‘Fresh air’s the best thing for colds,’ she insisted.

  He bought them bowls of soup and watched as she gulped hers down. ‘We got in at four in the morning,’ she said between spoonfuls, ‘and we’ve got to be in early this evening to discuss some changes the musical director has in mind.’

  ‘A new score?’ Russell asked.

  ‘If only. It’ll be nothing. He just has to justify the fact that he’s still being paid.’ She started tearing up a roll and dropping it in the soup. ‘You’ll pick me up after the show?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll come and watch the last half hour if they’ll let me in. Is it the same man on the door?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’ll make sure they know you’re coming.’ She spooned a chunk of sodden bread into her mouth. ‘This is good. I feel better already. How have you been? How’s Paul?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him yet. But he sounds all right.’

  ‘Danzig?’

  ‘Suitably gloomy,’ he said. He told her about the stamp wars, which made her laugh, and the Soviet request for articles, which drew a raised eyebrow. ‘It’s just work,’ he said. There didn’t seem any point in mentioning the oral reports, or in spoiling their reunion with an account of the kindertransport and his day in jail.

  She stole the last of his roll to soak up the last of her soup. ‘I feel much better,’ she said again. ‘And I’ve still got three hours before I have to be at the theatre,’ she said, reaching out a slender hand for his. ‘Shall we go back to the flat?’

  Later that evening, Russell arrived backstage in time to hear the lament for the fallen heroes. It seemed more Wagnerian than ever, and he realised that the musical director had decided to apply the Third Reich’s guiding principle – never speak when you can shout. The military widows now had an entire choir of breast-swelling Valkyries to augment their lamentations. The front rows of the audience looked suitably stunned.

  After the show, Russell talked football with the stage-doorkeeper while he waited for Effi. She emerged after half an hour or so, still snuffling, but full of post-performance energy. It was clear and cold outside, the sidewalks crowded with people. They walked arm in arm past the entrance to the Aquarium, and along the southern side of the Zoo towards the glowing glasshouse which straddled the elevated lines at Zoo Station. The station buffet was packed, but they managed to find a couple of free stools and order a nightcap. This was the last place in Berlin where Jews could still buy a coffee, but there were no obvious Jewish faces. The city by night was an aryan preserve.

  As they left the buffet an international express steamed out across Hardenbergstrasse, rumbling the girders of the bridge and pumping bursts of white smoke towards the stars. Russell found himself wishing, if only for a moment, that he and Effi were two of the silhouettes in the necklace of illuminated windows, headed for another life in Amsterdam or Paris or New York, anywhere, in fact, beyond Hitler’s rancid realm.

  It was almost one when they got back to the flat. Their lovemaking that afternoon had been almost frenzied, but now they took it slowly, luxuriously, taking each other to the brink again and again before finally, joyously, tumbling over it together. Wrapped in his arms, Effi went to sleep almost immediately, but Russell’s brain refused to let him be. He had not been angry with the Nazis that morning, he realised. He had been angry with himself. Angry at his own helplessness. Angry that all he could manage were fantasies of escape.

  It suddenly occurred to him that his imaginary book of photographs might make a real impact abroad. Especially in America, where the Jewish organisations had some political clout. He could get pictures of old Jewish businesses and synagogues from press libraries and shoot the ruins himself with Zembski’s camera. Getting it out of the country would be a problem, but he’d worry about that – and ensuring his own anonymity – when the time came. And if anyone noticed him taking pictures of burnt-out synagogues he could say he was compiling the record of anti-Semitic triumphs he had originally envisaged. He smiled to himself in the dark.

  Next morning they walked to their usual café in the Tiergarte
n for milky coffee and rolls. The winter sun was already high in the south-eastern sky, and as they strolled back along the northern bank of the Landwehrkanal it seemed as if most of Berlin had had the same idea. Effi had arranged to meet her older sister Zarah for lunch, something she often did when Russell was seeing his son. He had never really liked Zarah, who had none of Effi’s fitful ability to look beyond herself, and had married an ambitious Nazi civil servant. Soon after Russell met Effi, she had asked for his help in arranging an abortion for Zarah in England. Zarah had travelled to London, decided at the last moment she couldn’t go through with it, and had eventually given birth to a boy. Much to everyone’s surprise, she had doted on the child from day one. Much to Russell’s annoyance, she blamed him for the fact that she had nearly had an abortion.

  After he and Effi parted, Russell caught a 76 tram outside the Zoo for Grünewald, and watched the houses grow bigger as it worked its way past Halensee and into Berlin’s prosperous southwestern suburbs. Paul’s school was a five minute walk from the tram terminus, and just down the road from the large tree-shrouded villa which his stepfather Matthias Gehrts had inherited from his father. Both school and villa backed onto one of the small lakes which dotted the area, and sitting on the low wall beside the school gates Russell had occasional glimpses of sailboats between buildings.

  A couple of women arrived on foot to pick up their sons, but his fellow dads all arrived in cars, and stood around discussing the reliability of their mechanics.

  The Jungvolk appeared soon after one, buttoning their overcoats over their uniforms as they walked to the gate. Paul half-ran to greet him, a big smile on his face.

  ‘So where shall we go today?’ Russell asked.

  ‘The Funkturm.’

  ‘Again?’ They had visited Berlin’s radio tower at least half a dozen times in 1938.

  ‘I like it there.’

  ‘Okay. Let’s get a tram then. Do you want me to carry that?’ he asked, indicating the large book his son was holding.

  ‘We’ll take turns,’ Paul decided.

  ‘What is it?’ Russell asked.

  ‘It’s the Yearbook,’ Paul said, holding it out.

  The Hitler Youth Yearbook, Russell realised, as he skimmed through the pages. There were five hundred of them. ‘So what did you do today?’

  ‘The same as usual to begin with. Roll-call and gymnastics and then the history lesson – that was all about Germania and the Romans and how most history people get it wrong about them. They think the Romans were civilised and the Germans were barbarians, but in fact it was the other way round – the Romans got mixed up with other races and got soft and lazy and forgot how to fight but the Germans stayed German and that made them strong.’ They reached the tram stop just as a tram squealed to a halt. ‘And after the history lesson,’ Paul went on, once they were in their seats, ‘we did some work on the map wall – remember? – we’re doing a whole wall of maps of Germany from the beginning to now. It’s beginning to look really good.’ He looked out of the window. ‘There’s a shop down here that sells model soldiers, and they’ve got the new set of dead ones. Someone at school brought them in. They’re really real.’

  They would be, Russell thought. Death and toys, the German specialities.

  ‘If they’d come out before Christmas, I’d have them now,’ Paul said wistfully.

  They reached Halensee Station and climbed down the steps to the Ringbahn platform. ‘And then we had a talk from this old man,’ Paul said, as they watched an electric train pull away from the opposite platform and accelerate down the cutting. ‘Quite old, anyway – he was much more than forty. He came to talk about the last war and what it was like. He said there weren’t many aeroplanes or tanks, and there was lots of hand–to-hand fighting – is that true?’

  ‘There was some. Depends what he meant by lots.’

  ‘I think he meant it was happening all the time.’ Paul looked up at Russell. ‘I didn’t believe a lot of the things he said. I mean, he said that the best thing a soldier could do was to die for his country. And one of the boys in the back asked him if he was sorry that he hadn’t died, and the man didn’t reply. The boy was told to report to the leader’s room after the talk, and he looked pretty sick when he came out.’

  ‘Did they give him a whacking?’

  ‘No, I think they just shouted at him. He wasn’t trying to be clever – he’s just a bit stupid.’

  Their train pulled in, and Paul spent the single stop ride staring out of the window at the skeletal Funkturm rising out of the tangle of railways. Erected in 1926, it looked like a smaller version of the Eiffel Tower, which probably galled the Nazis no end. ‘The lift’s going up,’ Paul said, and they watched it climb towards the viewing platform 126 metres above the ground.

  Fifteen minutes later they were waiting at the bottom for their own ride. One lift carried them to the restaurant level, 55 metres up, another to the circular walkway with its panoramic view of the city. The viewing platform was crowded, children queuing to use the coin-operated binoculars. Russell and his son worked their way slowly round, gazing out beyond the borders of the city at the forests and lakes in the south-west, the plains in the north and east. The Olympic Stadium loomed close by to the west, and Berlin’s two other high buildings – the office tower of the Borsig locomotive works and the futuristic Shellhaus – both seemed closer than usual in the clear air. As tradition demanded, once Paul got his hands on the binoculars he turned them towards the northern suburb of Gesundbrunnen, where Hertha’s flag was fluttering above the roof of the Plumpe’s solitary grandstand. ‘Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC!’ he chanted underneath his breath.

  In the restaurant below they both ordered macaroni, ham and cheese, washed down, in Paul’s case, with a bottle of Coca Cola.

  ‘Would you like to see New York?’ Russell asked, following a thread of thought that had begun on the viewing platform.

  ‘Oh yes!’ Paul exclaimed. ‘It must be fantastic. The Empire State Building is more than three times as high as this, and it has a viewing platform right near the top.’

  ‘We could stay with your grandmother.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Not for a few years yet. When you finish school, maybe.’

  Paul’s face fell. ‘There’ll be a war before then.’

  ‘Who says so?’

  Paul looked at him with disbelief. ‘Everybody does.’

  ‘Sometimes everybody’s wrong.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ He blew into his straw, making the Coke bubble and fizz. ‘Dad,’ he began again, then stopped.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you were in the war, did you want to die for England?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’ Russell was suddenly conscious of the people at the tables nearby. This was not a conversation to have in public.

  ‘Did you want to fight at all?’

  ‘Let’s go back up top,’ Russell suggested.

  ‘Okay,’ Paul agreed, but only after he’d given Russell one of those looks which suggested he should try harder at being a normal father.

  They took the lift once more, and found an empty stretch of railing on the less popular side, facing away from the city. Down to their left an S-bahn train was pulling out of the Olympic Stadium station.

  ‘I didn’t want to fight,’ Russell began, after pausing to marshal his thoughts. ‘I didn’t volunteer – I was conscripted. I could have refused, and probably gone to prison instead, but I wasn’t certain enough about my feelings to do that. I thought maybe I was just afraid, and that I was hiding behind my opinions. But once I got to the trenches it was different. There were a few idiots who still believed in death and glory, but most of us knew that we’d been conned. All the governments were telling their soldiers that they had God and right on their side, and that dying for their country was the least they could do, but – well, think about it – what does it mean, dying for your country? What exactly is your country? The buildings and the grass and the trees? The people? The
way of life? People say you should love your country, and be proud of it, and there are usually things to love and be proud of. But there are usually things to dislike as well, and every country has things to be ashamed of. So what does dying for your country achieve? Nothing, as far as I could see. Living for your country, you get the chance to make it better.’ He looked at his son, whose expression was almost fierce.

  ‘Our leader says that people who don’t want to fight are cowards.’

  ‘I expect some of them are. But… you remember the Boer War in South Africa, between the English and the Boers? Well, the Indian nationalist leader Gandhi, he was a leader of the Indians in South Africa then, and he refused to fight. Instead he organised medical teams which helped the wounded on the battlefield. He and his people were always in the thick of the action, and lots of them were killed. They wouldn’t fight, but they were about as far from cowards as you can get.’

  Paul looked thoughtful.

  ‘But I shouldn’t say anything like that at a Jungvolk meeting,’ Russell went on, suddenly conscious of the Yearbook he was carrying. ‘You’d just get yourself in trouble. Think about things, and decide what you think is right, but keep it to yourself, or the family at least. These are dangerous times we’re living in, and a lot of people are frightened of people who don’t think like they do. And frightened people tend to lash out.’

  ‘But if you know something’s wrong, isn’t it cowardly to just keep quiet?’

  This was what Russell was afraid of. How could you protect children from the general idiocy without putting them at risk? ‘It can be,’ he said carefully, ‘but there’s not much point picking a fight if you know you’re bound to lose. Better to wait until you have some chance of winning. The important thing is not to lose sight of what is right and what is wrong. You may not be able to do anything about it at the time, but nothing lasts for ever. You’ll get a chance eventually.’