Hoping for some conversation he revisited the restaurant car, but the only customers were a middle-aged German couple deep in the throes of an argument. The barman sold him a Goldwasser, but made it abundantly clear he was through talking for the day. Around eleven-thirty Russell reluctantly worked his way back down the train to the sleeping cars. The attendant showed him to his berth, and generously pointed out that the one above was unoccupied. He could take his pick.
Russell tossed his bag on the upper bunk, used the bathroom, and climbed half-dressed into the lower bunk. He would have a bath when he reached his hotel, he thought. It was an expensive one, so there shouldn’t be any problem with hot water.
As usual he had trouble getting to sleep. He lay there, feeling the sway of the train, listening to the click of the wheels on the rail joints, thinking about Effi. She was younger than him – eight years younger. Maybe people’s expectations shifted after a certain age, which he’d reached and she hadn’t. Was that why they were still living apart? Why had neither of them ever mentioned marriage? Was he afraid of something? He didn’t think so. But then what was the point of turning their lives upside-down when the Führer was about to do it for them?
Shortly after eight in the morning he was standing, yawning, on one of Cracow Plaszów Station’s snow-covered platforms. After eventually getting to sleep, he had twice been roused for border inspections, and could hardly have felt worse if he’d been awake all night.
He started towards the exit, and almost went over on a patch of ice. Further up the platform a line of young railway employees were working their way towards him, breath pumping, shovelling snow and noisily digging at the ice beneath with their spades. The sky above them seemed heavy with future snowfalls.
His hotel was on the other side of Cracow’s old town, some three miles away. He found a taxi outside the station, and a taxi-driver who wanted to practise his English. He had a cousin in Chicago, he said, but he wanted to go to Texas and work in the oil industry. That was where the future was.
As they drove north through the Jewish quarter Russell noticed the Marx Brothers adorning a cinema on Starowislna Street. The name of the film was in Polish, but his driver’s English failed him. He asked again at the Hotel Francuski reception, and received a confident answer from a young man in a very shiny suit. The film, which had only just opened, was called ‘Broth of the Bird.’
His room was on the third floor, looking out on Pijakska Street. This was full of well-insulated, purposeful walkers, presumably on their way to work. A church stood just across the way, the beauty of its rococo façade still visible beneath the clinging snow.
The room itself was large, high-ceilinged and well-furnished. The bed gave without sagging, the two-person sofa was almost luxurious. The small table and upright chair by the window were custom-made for the visiting journalist. There was a spacious wardrobe for hanging his clothes. The lights all worked, both here and in the adjoining bathroom, which seemed almost as big. The water ran hot in the big four-legged bath, and Russell lay soaking until he realised he was falling asleep.
After a shave and change of clothes he ventured out again. As expected it was snowing, large flakes of the stuff floating down in dense profusion. Following the receptionist’s directions, Russell turned right outside the door, and right again opposite the church, into Sw Jana Street. Following this south across two intersections he reached the Rynek Glówny, Europe’s largest market square. The centre of the huge expanse was occupied by a Gothic hall, but Russell’s eyes were instantly drawn to his left, and the loveliest church he had ever seen. Two asymmetrical towers soared skyward through the curtain of snow, one climaxing in a flurry of spires, the other, slightly less high, in a small renaissance dome. Both were stacked with windows, like a medieval skyscraper.
For several minutes he stood there entranced, until the cold in his feet and a hunger for coffee drove him into one of the cafés that lined the square. Two cups and a roll packed with thick slices of bacon later he felt ready to face a day of work. The café might be half-empty, but all the customers were ‘Germany’s Neighbours’. He introduced himself to one young Polish couple and took it from there. For the next few hours he worked his way round the cafés and bars of the old town, asking questions.
Most of those he approached spoke some English or some German, and he didn’t get many refusals. His own Englishness usually got him off to a favourable start, since many of his interviewees chose to believe that he had a personal line to Neville Chamberlain. Would England fight for Poland? they all asked. And when Russell expressed a sliver of doubt as to whether she would, they couldn’t believe it. ‘But you fought for Belgium!’ several of them said indignantly.
There was virtual unanimity about Poland’s situation. Germany was a menace, the Soviets were a menace – it was like choosing between cholera and the Black Death. What did they think about the German request for an extra-territorial road across the corridor? They could whistle. Would they fight for German Danzig? Every last stone. Would they win? He must be joking.
He couldn’t be certain of course, but the few people who refused him all looked Jewish. A shadow dropped over their eyes when he introduced himself, a hunted look on their faces as they backed away, pleading lack of time or some other excuse. As if he was an advance guard for the Nazis, his very presence in Cracow a harbinger of disaster.
The snow kept falling. He ate an omelette for lunch in one of the Rynek Glówny cafés, and then trudged up and down the main shopping streets in search of a present for Effi. He half-expected Shchepkin to suddenly appear at his shoulder, but there was no sign of him or anyone else. As far as Russell could tell, no one was tracking his footsteps in the snow.
After slipping on some icy cobbles and being almost run over by a tram he decided a rest was in order, and retreated to his hotel for a nap. It was seven by the time he woke, and he felt hungry again. A new receptionist recommended a restaurant on Starowislna Street, which turned out to be only a few doors from the cinema showing the Marx Brothers movie. It was too good an opportunity to miss. After partaking of a wonderful wienerschnitzel – at least Cracow had something to thank the Hapsburg Empire for – he joined the shivering queue for the evening showing.
Inside the cinema it was hot, noisy and packed. Surveying the audience before the lights went down, Russell guessed that at least half of it was Jewish. He felt cheered by the fact that this could still seem normal, even in a country as prone to anti-Semitism as Poland. He wished Ruth and Marthe were there with him. And Albert. He couldn’t remember ever seeing Albert laugh.
The newsreel was in Polish, but Russell got the gist. The first item featured a visit to Warsaw by the Hungarian Foreign Minister, and no doubt claimed that he and Colonel Beck had discussed matters of mutual importance, without spelling out what everyone knew these were – choosing their cuts of Czechoslovakia once the Germans had delivered the carcass. The second item concerned Danzig, with much piling of sandbags round the Polish Post Office. The third, more entertainingly, featured a man in New York walking a tightrope between skyscrapers.
The movie proved a surreal experience in more ways than one. Since it was subtitled in Polish, the audience felt little need to keep quiet, and Russell had some trouble catching all the wisecracks. And as the subtitling ran a few seconds behind the visuals, he often found himself laughing ahead of everyone else, like some eccentric cackler.
None of it mattered, though. He’d loved the Marx Brothers since seeing Animal Crackers during the last days of the Weimar Republic, before Jewish humour followed Jewish music and Jewish physics into exile. By the time ‘Broth of the Bird’ was half anhour old he was literally aching with laughter. The film’s subject-matter – the approach of an utterly ridiculous war between two Ruritanian countries – was fraught with contemporary relevance, but any dark undertone was utterly overwhelmed by the swirling tide of joyous anarchy. If you wanted something real to worry about, there were cracker crumbs in the bed with a w
oman expected. The only sane response to rampant patriotism was: ‘Take a card!’ As the audience streamed out of the cinema, at least half the faces were streaked with tears of laughter.
It had stopped snowing. In fact, the sky seemed to be clearing. As he walked back towards the city centre, Russell had glimpses of the Wawel Castle and Cathedral silhouetted against a starry slice of sky. Following the tram-lines through a gap in the old medieval walls he eventually reached the Rynek Glówny, where the cafés and restaurants were humming with conversation and all sorts of music. Standing in mid-square beside the Cloth Hall he could hear pianos playing Mendelssohn, Chopin and American blues.
People were having fun. They did that in Berlin too, but there was something different in the air. In Berlin there was always an edge of caution: looks over the shoulder, a rein on the tongue. Maybe there was one here too – heaven knew, the regime in Warsaw was illiberal enough – but he couldn’t feel it. If the Poles were facing the most threatening year of their recent existence, they weren’t letting on.
He thought about having a nightcap, but decided not to make things any more difficult for Shchepkin than he needed to. He was only spending one night at the hotel.
There was no sign of him in the lobby, or of anyone else, suspicious or not. There was no message at reception when he collected his key. After ascending in the delightful glass and wrought iron cage, he found his corridor silent, his door locked. The room was empty. Laughing at himself, he checked the wardrobe. No Shchepkin. No Harpo Marx.
It was almost midnight. He stretched out on the sofa with the John Kling detective stories which Paul had loaned him weeks before, one ear cocked for footsteps in the corridor, but all he heard was an occasional drunken shout from the street below. At 12.45 he gave up and went to bed, laughing in the dark about cracker crumbs.
• • •
He was woken by church bells. It was just after eight, a thin line of grey light separating the curtains on the near window. Russell clambered out of bed and pulled them back. The tip of the church spire opposite was lit by an invisible sun, the sky clear. It looked bitterly cold.
He had mixed feelings about Shchepkin’s non-appearance. He couldn’t help feeling annoyed that he might have come all this way, missing a weekend with Effi and Paul, only to be stood up. On the other hand, he could hardly say the weekend had been wasted – he liked Cracow, had loved Duck Soup, and had the makings of a ‘Germany’s Neighbours’ article. If the Soviets were already tired of him he supposed he should feel relieved, but he couldn’t help feeling a poignant sense of anti-climax.
Whatever, he told himself. If nothing else, the projected Soviet series had inspired him to generate others. And Shchepkin – he looked at his watch – still had seven hours to make contact before his train left.
He was damned if he was going to stay cooped up in his room, even if the hotel would let him. He decided to pack and take his bag to the left luggage at the main station, which was only five minutes walk away. He could get a taxi from there to the Plaszów station when the time came.
An hour later, he was enjoying coffee and rolls in an almost empty station buffet. There were no English or German papers for sale, and – it being Sunday morning – little activity to observe. One small shunting engine chugged its way through in apparent search of work, but that was it. Russell was about to leave when a dark-haired young man loomed over his table. ‘Have you a pencil I could use?’ he asked in German.
Russell handed his over.
The man sat down, wrote out what appeared to be train times on the corner of his newspaper, and handed the pencil back. ‘Zygmunt’s Chapel,’ he said pleasantly as he got to his feet. ‘Two o’clock.’
Russell reached the foot of the ramp leading up to the Wawel with time to spare. On the slopes of the hill several bunches of children were throwing snowballs at each other and squealing with delight, while their parents stood and chatted, plumes of breath coalescing in the air between them. Away to the left, the yellow walls and red tile roof of the Royal Palace stood stark against the clear blue sky.
The ramp ended in a gate through the old fortifications, close by the southern end of the Cathedral. This – in contrast to the church on the Rynek Glówny – was an elegant mess featuring spires and domes in a bewildering variety of styles and sizes, as if the whole thing had been arranged by a playful child.
The Zygmunt Chapel was off the nave to the right. The tombs of two men – kings, Russell assumed – were vertically stacked amidst a feast of renaissance carving. The accompanying writing was in Polish, but he recognised the name Jagiello from the Danzig stamp wars.
‘Beautiful, yes?’ said a familiar voice at his shoulder.
‘It is,’ Russell agreed. Shchepkin was wearing the same crumpled suit, and quite possibly the same shirt, but on this occasion a dark green tie was hanging, somewhat loosely, beneath the collar. A fur hat covered his hair.
‘Have you visited Cracow before?’ the Russian asked.
‘No, never.’
‘It’s one of my favourite cities.’
‘Oh.’
‘Have you seen the Holy Cross Chapel?’ Shchepkin asked.
‘No…’
‘You must. Come.’ He led the way back towards the entrance, and the chapel to its left. Russell followed, somewhat amused at being shown the wonders of Christendom by a communist agent.
The chapel was extraordinary. There was another Jagiellonian tomb, carved in marble in the year Columbus stumbled across America, and a series of slightly older Byzantine frescoes. As they emerged, Shchepkin stood looking down the nave, then turned his eyes upwards toward the soaring roof.
‘My father was a priest,’ he said in reaction to Russell’s look. ‘One thing more,’ he added, gesturing toward the shrine in the centre of the nave. It held a silver coffin of staggering workmanship. ‘It was made in Danzig,’ Shchepkin pointed out, as if their relationship needed geographical continuity. ‘Enough,’ he added, seeing Russell’s expression, ‘we’ll save the crypts for another time. Let’s go outside.’
Between the cathedral and the walls overlooking the Vistula there was a large open space. Russell and Shchepkin joined the scattering of couples and small groups who were following the freshly-cleared circular path, almost blinded for a while by the brightness of sun on snow.
‘The article was perfect,’ Shchepkin said eventually. ‘Just what was required.’ He produced an envelope from his pocket and slipped it into Russell’s. ‘For your research work,’ he said.
Russell stole a quick look at it. It was a banker’s draft in Reichsmarks. Lots of them.
‘What’s the next article about,’ Shchepkin asked.
‘Transport.’
‘Excellent. So what are you telling me today?’
Russell went through the results of his visit to Dresden, his impressions and analysis. It all seemed pretty obvious to him, but Shchepkin seemed satisfied enough, nodding and interjecting the occasional question or comment. Russell had the feeling he could have listed the stations on the Ringbahn.
After one circuit they started another. They were not alone in this, but one man in particular, limping along fifty yards behind them, struck Russell as suspicious. But when he glanced over his shoulder for the third time Shchepkin told him not to worry. ‘One of mine,’ he said almost affectionately. ‘Local help,’ he added, rubbing his hands together. ‘What did the SD have to say?’ he asked.
Russell recounted his meeting with Kleist, and the demand for previews of each article. He also told Shchepkin about the letter Kleist had written for him, and regretted doing so almost instantly – he wanted the Russian worried for his safety, not encouraged to risk it. ‘And the British want previews too,’ he added quickly, hoping to divert his listener with an unwelcome shock.
Shchepkin, though, just laughed. ‘And how are you explaining these trips?’ he asked.
Russell explained about ‘Germany’s Neighbours’ and ‘Ordinary Germans’.
&
nbsp; ‘Not bad,’ Shchepkin said. ‘We will make an intelligence officer of you yet.’
‘No thanks.’
Shchepkin gave him one of those looks, amused but disappointed. ‘Are you planning to take sides in the coming war?’ he asked.
‘Not if I can help it,’ was Russell’s instinctive response.
‘Have you heard of the poet Yeats?’ Shchepkin asked out of the blue.
‘Of course.’
Shchepkin grunted. ‘One never knows with the English. So many of you look down on anything Irish.’
‘Yeats is a wonderful poet.’
‘He died yesterday,’ Shchepkin said.
‘I didn’t know.’
‘You know that poem – “The Stolen Child”? I always loved that line – “For the world’s world more full of weeping than you can understand.”’
Russell said nothing.
Shchepkin shook his head, as if to clear it. ‘We’ll meet in Posen next month. Or Poznan as the Poles call it now. And we’d like you to talk to armament workers,’ he said. ‘In Berlin, the Ruhr – you know where the big factories are. We need to know if there are problems there, if the workers are ready for political action.’
‘That’ll be difficult,’ Russell said.
‘Ordinary German workers, caught between their natural desire for peace and patriotic concern for the Fatherland,’ Shchepkin suggested. ‘I’m sure you can manage it.’
‘I’ll try,’ Russell agreed.
‘You must,’ Shchepkin said. ‘And you really should wear a hat.’
Idiots to spare
Berlin was grey and overcast. As his train drew into Friedrichstrasse Station, Russell thought about taking the Stadtbahn another couple of stops and surprising Effi in bed, but decided against. She was rarely at her best this early in the morning.
Zoo Station Page 13
