Kleist looked thoughtful.
‘And I see such articles as a contribution to peace,’ Russell went on, hoping he wasn’t over-egging the pudding. ‘I fought in the last war, and I have no desire to see another. If nations and governments understand each other, there’s less chance we’ll all blunder into one.’
Kleist smiled. ‘I don’t think there’s much chance of the Führer blundering into anything,’ he said. ‘But I take your point. And we have no objection to your articles, subject to certain conditions. These are sensitive subjects – I’m sure you’d agree. And while you are English, you are also living in the Reich under our protection. Your views would not be seen as official views, but they would be seen as views we are prepared to tolerate. You understand me? Whatever you write could be construed as having our blessing.’
Russell felt anxious for the first time. ‘Yes…’ he said hesitantly.
‘So, you see, it follows that we cannot permit you to write anything that we violently disagree with. Your articles will have to be pre-submitted for our approval. I am sure,’ he added, ‘that this will only be a formality.’
Russell thought quickly. Should he at least recognize the implied dismissal of his journalistic integrity, or just play the cynic? He opted for the practical approach. ‘This is unusual, but I see your point,’ he said. ‘And I have no objection, provided that your office can approve – or disapprove – the articles quickly. The first one is due in a couple of weeks, and at fortnightly intervals after that – so, a couple of days…’
‘That will not be a problem. Nothing gathers dust here.’
Kleist looked pleased, and Russell had the sudden realisation that the SD were as eager to see these articles as Shchepkin and his people. He decided to go for broke. ‘Sturmbannführer, could I make a request? In order to write these articles I shall need to travel a great deal around the Reich, and talk to a lot of people. I shall be asking them questions which they may find suspicious, coming, as they will, from a foreigner. A letter from this office confirming my credentials, and stating that I have permission to ask such questions, would be very useful. It would save a lot of time talking to local officials, and might help me avoid all sorts of time-consuming difficulties.’
Kleist looked momentarily off-balance – this was not in his script – but he soon recovered. He scratched his cheek and rearranged his hair again before answering. ‘That seems a reasonable request,’ he said, ‘but I’ll have to consult with my superiors before issuing such a letter.’ He looked down at his pen, as if imagining the pleasure of writing it out.
‘Is there anything else?’ Russell asked.
‘Just one thing. Your business with the Soviets – you are conducting it by post, I presume?’
‘So far,’ Russell agreed, hoping to God that Kleist knew nothing of his meeting with Shchepkin. ‘Though of course I may have to use the phone or the wire service at some point.’
‘Mm. Let me be frank with you, Mr Russell. If, in the course of your dealings with the Soviets, you learn anything of their intentions, their capabilities, we would expect you to pass such information on.’
‘You’re asking me to spy for you?’
‘No, not as such. Mr Russell, you’ve lived in Germany for many years…’
‘Almost fourteen.’
‘Exactly. Your son is a German boy, a proud member of the Hitler Youth, I believe.’
‘He is.’
‘So presumably you feel a certain loyalty to the Reich.’
‘I feel affection, and gratitude. I am not a great believer in loyalty to countries or governments.’
‘Ah, you were a communist once, I believe.’
‘Yes, but so was Mussolini. A lot of people were in the early 1920s. Like Mussolini, I got over it. As for my loyalty or lack of it… Sturmbannführer, what would you think of a German who, after a decade spent in England, proclaimed his loyalty to the English King? I suspect you would consider him a traitor to the Fatherland.’
‘I…’
‘I have a German son,’ Russell ploughed on. ‘I have an American mother, and I had an English father. I was brought up in England. Insofar as I am able, I am loyal to all three countries.’
‘But not to the Soviets?’
‘No.’
‘So if a Soviet contact told you of a threat to the Reich, you would not keep it to yourself.’
‘I would not.’
‘Very well. Then I think our business is concluded.’ Kleist stood up and offered his hand across the desk. ‘If you get the articles to me, either by hand or post, I will guarantee to return them within twenty-four hours. Will that suffice?’
‘It will.’
‘Then good day to you. Fraulein Lange will see you back to the entrance.’
She did. Russell followed the clicking heels once more, picked up his coat from the smiling receptionist, and found himself out on the Wilhelmstrasse pavement. It was dark. In more ways than one.
Tuesday was clear and cold. Walking down to the U-bahn at Hallesches Tor, Russell was more conscious of the icy wind from the east than any theoretical warmth from the sun. At the studio in Neukölln he waited while Zembski shouted at someone down the phone, and then persuaded the Silesian to develop his film that day. Back at the U-bahn station he bought the Tageblatt and Allgemeine Zeitung at a kiosk and skimmed through their accounts of the Chancellery opening as he waited for a train. As far as he could tell, he’d seen all there was to see.
The only other items of interest were the imminent departure of Reichsbank President Schacht, the Danzig stamp row – which had finally reached the German nationals – and the unsurprising news that US government spokesmen were less than impressed by the Nazis’ latest idea of sending all the Jews to either Manchuria or Alaska.
Back at Neuenburgerstrasse Russell settled down to work. If you had a green light from the SD, he noted cynically, it probably paid to get moving. First off, he needed a list of topics for Pravda. What was so great about Nazi Germany if you didn’t like flags and blood in the gutter? Full employment, for one. A national sense of well-being. Worker’s benefits, up to a point. Cheap organized leisure activities – sport, culture, travel. All these came at a cost, and only, needless to say, to aryans, but there was something there. As an English advertising man had once told him, there had to be something in the product that was worth having.
What else? Health care was pretty good for the curable. And transport – the rocket trains, the autobahns and the people’s car, the new flying-boats and aeroplanes. The Nazis loved modernity when it speeded things up or made them simpler, hated it when it complicated things, or made it harder for them to live in their medieval mind-set. Einstein being Jewish was most convenient.
He could write something perceptive about Nazi Germany if he had the mind to, Russell thought. Unfortunately…
He could write these articles in his sleep. Or almost. The Soviets liked lots of statistics – something they shared with the Nazis – and that would involve a little work. But not much. Shchepkin’s oral reports on the other hand…
He’d been trying not to think about them. Kleist’s question about other contacts had also been intended as a warning – he was sure of that. And the Soviets expected him to meet one of their agents outside Germany once a month. Which would no doubt make things safer for the agent, but how was he supposed to explain this new and oddly regular penchant for foreign travel? Could he refuse this part of the Soviet job? He suspected not. He wasn’t sure how the Soviets would make any hard feelings felt, but he was sure they’d manage it somehow.
Nor did he feel that happy about wandering round Germany asking questions, even if Kleist did come up with some sort of protective letter. He supposed he could invent any number of imaginary responses – how, after all, could the Soviets check up on him? Then again, who knew what was left of the communist network in Germany? And in any case, part of him liked the idea of finding out what ordinary Germans were feeling in Year Six of Hitler�
�s thousand.
That was it, he thought. ‘Ordinary Germans.’ The British and American tabloids liked series: the Daily Mail was currently running one on ‘European Troublespots’ – he’d read No.4 (‘Memel – Europe’s Nagging Tooth’) the previous week. He could do something similar about ordinary Germans. The Worker. The Housewife. The Sailor, the Doctor, the Schoolboy. Whatever, as Slaney would say. Interviewing them would provide the ideal cover for gathering the information Shchepkin wanted.
And the trips abroad? It was obvious – ‘Germany’s Neighbours’. Another series, this one looking at how people in the neighbouring countries viewed Germany. He could travel all he wanted, talk to all the foreigners he wanted, without arousing suspicion. In Poland, Denmark, Holland, France, what was left of Czechoslovakia. He could take Effi to Paris, visit his cousin Rainer in Budapest. He leaned back in his chair feeling pleased with himself. These two series would make him safer and richer. Things were looking up.
The feeling of well-being lasted until the next day. After posting off his text and photos of the Chancellery opening he travelled across town to the University, where Julius Streicher was inaugurating the new chair. It wasn’t, as Normanton had mischievously claimed, actually called the Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda, but it might have been. There was no sign of Streicher’s famous bullwhip, but his veins bulged just the way Russell remembered. The Nazi angrily denied the claim that National Socialism had put fetters on science or research. Restrictions, he insisted, had only been placed on the unruly. In fact decency and sincerity had only obtained their freedom under National Socialism.
He had been ranting for an hour and a half when Russell left, and looked set for many hours more. Coming away, Russell knew what Normanton had meant about Mad Hatter material but, for once in his life, he felt more emotionally in tune with McKinley’s simple disgust. Perhaps it was the fact that his next port of call was the Wiesners.
He picked up a Daily Mail while changing trams in Alexanderplatz and went through it with the two girls. They pored over the fashion pictures and ads, puzzled over the headline which read MAN WHO SLAPPED WOMAN MAYOR SAYS ‘I’M ASTOUNDED’, and objected to the one which claimed ALL WOMEN ARE MAGPIES. A photograph of the King of Egypt out duck-shooting reduced Ruth to such a fit of giggles that her mother came out to see what was happening.
After the lesson she brought out the best coffee and cake Russell had tasted for months, and insisted on thanking him profusely for all he was doing. Her husband was well, she said, but her face clouded over when he asked about Albert. He was ‘finding things difficult,’ she said. He had the feeling she thought about saying more, but decided against it.
He’d planned a few more hours of work before picking up Effi from the theatre, but after Streicher and the Wiesners he felt more like punching someone. He found another Western on the Ku’damm and sank into a world of huge skies, lofty canyons and simple justice. Chewing gum for the heart.
Effi was tired and seemed as subdued as he felt. They walked slowly back to her flat, went to bed, and lay quietly in each other’s arms until she went to sleep. Her face grew younger in sleep, and she looked even more like Ruth Wiesner.
Wednesday evening, Russell was listening to dance band music on the BBC when McKinley knocked on his door and suggested a drink. While he collected his shoes from the bedroom the young American scanned his bookshelves. ‘Half of these are banned,’ he said admiringly, when Russell returned.
‘I haven’t got round to burning them yet,’ he said, reaching for his coat.
Outside it was warmer than it had been, but there were specks of rain in the air. As they turned the corner into Lindenstrasse McKinley took a sudden look over his shoulder, as if he’d heard something.
‘What?’ Russell asked, seeing nothing.
McKinley shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
They walked under the elevated U-bahn tracks at Hallesches Tor, and across Blücherplatz to the bar they used for their infrequent drinks together. It was almost empty, the barman yawning on his stool, two old men in the corner staring morosely at each other. McKinley bought them beers – dark for Russell, light for himself – while Russell commandeered the only bowl with any nuts and carried it across to the table with the fewest standing pools. As he lowered himself into the seat it groaned alarmingly but held together. ‘We have to find a new bar,’ he murmured.
McKinley tried his beer and smiled in satisfaction. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Now tell me about Schacht.’
‘He’s dead in the water.’
‘Okay, but why? I never understood economics.’
‘Schacht does. That’s why.’
‘What do you mean?’
Russell thought about it. ‘Schacht wants to see the economy run according to the laws of economics. He did when he was finance Minister, and as long as he’s in charge of the Reichsbank he’ll keep beating the same drum. The trade deficit is soaring, the Reichsbank’s holdings of foreign exchange are dwindling, and there’s a real possibility of another runaway inflation. The economy’s running out of control. Schacht would like to raise taxes and switch production from armaments to something that can be sold abroad. Some hope, eh? If Hitler and Goering have to choose between their armament programme and the laws of economics, which do you think they’ll choose?’
‘But if the economy is in real trouble?’
‘Nothing a war won’t fix.’
‘Ah.’
‘Ah, indeed. Schacht, shall we say, has the narrow view. He’s assuming several years of peace, at the very least. Hitler, on the other hand, sees a choice. He can either do what Schacht wants – rein back the war machine, raise taxes and get the real economy moving again – or he can go for broke, and use the army to put things right. He sees all that wealth beyond his borders, just begging to be collected. That’s why Schacht has to go. Hitler’s not going to risk higher taxes in Germany when he can steal the same money from conquered foreigners.’
McKinley looked at him. ‘I never know how serious you are. If this is such a big story – Schacht going, I mean – then why isn’t it on the front pages back home? If war’s so absolutely certain, how come you’re the only one who knows it?’
Russell smiled. ‘Just gifted, I guess. Another beer?’ When he got back from the bar, McKinley was making notes in his little black book. ‘Was your dance night a one-off, or are you going out with that girl from the embassy?’ Russell asked him.
McKinley blushed. ‘We’ve only been out twice. Merle, her name is – you know, like Merle Oberon. Her father’s just a storekeeper in Philadelphia but she’s determined to really see life. She wants to see Europe while she’s working here, and then the rest of the world if she can.’
‘Good for her.’
‘You’ve travelled a lot, haven’t you?’
‘Once upon a time.’
‘Have you been to Russia?’
‘Yes. I met my wife there – my ex-wife, I should say. At a Comintern youth conference in 1924. Lenin had just died and Trotsky hadn’t noticed that the rug was gone from under his feet. It was a strange time, a sort of revolutionary cusp – not the moment it all went wrong, but the moment a lot of Party people realised that it already had. Does that make sense?’
‘I suppose. I’m hoping to go in March. The nineteenth Congress is being held in Moscow and I’m trying to persuade the paper to send me.’
‘That’ll be interesting,’ Russell said, though he doubted it would be.
Neither of them wanted another drink, and the nuts were all gone. It was raining outside, and they stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the neon shimmers in the puddles. As they passed under the elevated tracks a Warschauer Brucke train rumbled across, its sides streaming with water.
At the bottom of Lindenstrasse McKinley took a look back across the Belle Alliance Platz. ‘I think I’m being followed,’ he said, almost guiltily, in response to Russell’s enquiring look.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ Russell said, starin
g into the rain.
‘No, neither can I,’ McKinley said, as they started up Lindenstrasse. ‘It’s more of a feeling… I don’t know. If they are following me, they’re really good.’
Too many Thin Man movies, Russell thought. ‘Who’s they?’ he asked.
‘Oh, the Gestapo, I suppose.’
‘Moving like wraiths isn’t exactly the Gestapo style.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘Why would they be following you?’
McKinley grunted. ‘That story I told you about. That story I was going to tell you about,’ he corrected himself.
‘I’m not sure I want to know anymore,’ Russell said. ‘I don’t want them following me.’
It was meant as a joke, but McKinley didn’t take it that way. ‘Well, okay…’
Russell was thinking about the car he’d seen outside their block. He couldn’t imagine the Gestapo being that patient, but there were other sharks in the Nazi sea. ‘Look, Tyler. Whatever it is, if you really are being stalked by the authorities I should just drop it. No story’s worth that sort of grief.’
McKinley bristled. ‘Would you have said that ten years ago?’
‘I don’t know. Ten years ago I didn’t have the responsibilitiesI have now.’
‘Maybe you should ask yourself whether you can still be an honest journalist with those sort of responsibilities.’
That made Russell angry. ‘You haven’t cornered the market in honest journalism, for God’s sake.’
‘Of course not. But I know what matters. That once mattered to you.’
‘Truth has a habit of seeping out.’ Russell wasn’t even convincing himself, which made him angrier still. ‘Look, there’s seventy-five million people out there keeping their heads down. I’m just one of them.’
‘Fine. If you want to keep your head down, wait until it all blows over – fine. But I can’t do that.’
Zoo Station Page 8
