Zoo Station

by David Downing

  He stood up, put the smaller suitcase on the toilet seat, and opened it up. After unclicking the false bottom, he removed the three maps he had copied, replaced them with McKinley’s papers, and closed the false bottom again. A brief struggle then ensued, as he fought to open the other suitcase in what little remaining space the cubicle had to offer. Half its contents ended up on the floor, but all were eventually transferred to the smaller suitcase, which was now satisfyingly full. After checking that the three maps were in his coat pocket, he closed both suitcases, pulled the chain, and fought his way out of the cubicle.

  The man at the left luggage looked surprised to see him again, but accepted the empty suitcase without comment, and handed him a new ticket. On the platform above he waited for a westbound Stadtbahn, thinking that this was where McKinley had died and where the Wiesners had left Hitler behind. On the far platform a man was angrily shaking a burnt almond machine, just as another man had been doing at Friedrichstrasse on the morning he returned from Danzig.

  His train arrived and set off again, skirting the northern edge of the Tiergarten, crossing and re-crossing the Spree on its three-stop journey to Friedrichstrasse. Russell went out through the less frequented car park entrance and walked briskly towards the embassy. His steps on the pavements sounded unusually loud, and every car that didn’t stop seemed like a gift from God. Halfway across the Unter den Linden he decided that if anyone challenged him now, he would sprint through the Embassy doors and never come out again.

  But no one did. As before, he asked the receptionist for Unsworth and Unsworth for Trelawney-Smythe. The latter looked at the three maps as if he couldn’t believe his luck. ‘Where did you get them?’ he demanded.

  ‘A comrade in Kiel,’ was all Russell would tell him. ‘A one-off,’ he added. ‘There won’t be any more.’

  ‘But how do I know these are genuine?’

  ‘I guess you don’t. But they are. And your people must have ways of confirming at least some of it.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  Russell took a meaningful look at his watch. ‘I have a train to catch.’

  ‘And where are you off to this time?’ Trelawney-Smythe asked, sounding almost friendly.

  ‘Prague.’

  ‘Ah, joining Adolf’s reception committee.’

  ‘I hope not.’

  Dropping in on Unsworth to say goodbye, he was told much the same. ‘And the British guarantee of Czechoslovakia?’ Russell asked sarcastically.

  ‘Without Slovakia there is no Czechoslovakia,’ Unsworth said. ‘And therefore no guarantee.’

  ‘Neat,’ Russell said.

  ‘Very,’ Unsworth agreed.

  Out on the street, Russell hailed a passing taxi. ‘Anhalter Bahnhof,’ he told the driver. It seemed that he and Hitler were heading in the same direction.

  The train to Prague left at noon, and was scheduled to arrive in the Czech capital shortly before seven. Russell boarded it with a sinking sensation in his stomach, and an alcohol-rich lunch in the dining car did nothing to improve matters.

  The lunchtime editions carried the news that the Slovak premier Monsignor Tiso had been ‘invited’ to Berlin. He had, over the past couple of days, seemed surprisingly reluctant to tip over the Czech applecart, and the Führer was doubtless anxious to offer him some kindly advice. Their trains would cross at some point, Russell guessed. He would watch the passing windows for a prelate with a death wish.

  Speaking of which… he reminded himself that the Wiesners were in London, that foreigners were hardly ever searched, that the next life was bound to be better than this one. He fought off a momentary impulse to quit the train at Dresden, the only stop before the frontier. If he did, the Soviets would probably come looking for him with murder in mind. And he could hardly blame them – a deal was a deal.

  As the train wound its way up the upper Elbe valley towards the frontier he compiled a compendium of possible explanations for the material in his false-bottomed suitcase that a reefer-smoking Neville Chamberlain would have found impossible to believe. As Gert had said, the important thing was not to be searched.

  As the train slowed for the border inspection his heart speeded up. They came to a halt in a wide ravine, shared by double tracks and the loud, foaming river. The snow-speckled walls of the valley rose steeply on either side, and the long, low building which housed the emigration and customs services was partly suspended over the rushing waters. The river ruled out escape in one direction, and the tall electrified fence beyond the tracks precluded any hope of flight in the other. Like rats in a maze, Russell thought – only one way to go.

  The loudspeakers suspended from the searchlight pylons crackled into life. All passengers were requested to leave the train and form a queue on the narrow strip of tarmac alongside the tracks.

  There were about two hundred people in the queue, Russell reckoned, and they were filing into the building at a gratifying rate. Just a quick look at documents, he thought, and on we go. Beside him the train lurched forward, ready to pick up its passengers on the other side. Without its comforting presence Russell felt suddenly vulnerable.

  Finally, he could see through the doorway. Uniformed officers sat behind two desks, while others hovered in the background, sizing up potential prey. Further on, two pairs of officers stood behind tables, searching through bags and suitcases. The first hurdle presented itself. The officer looked at his passport, and then at his face. ‘Your name?’ he asked, and for a split second Russell’s mind was a terrifying blank.

  ‘John Russell,’ he said, as if he hadn’t been concentrating.

  ‘Birth date?’

  That was easier. ‘8 August 1899.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the official said, and handed him back his passport. Russell moved on, carefully avoiding all eye contact. Ignore me, he silently pleaded with the customs officials behind the tables.

  In vain. ‘You,’ the nearest said. ‘Open your case, please.’

  Russell placed it on the table, willing his hands not to shake as he clicked the case open. The man and his blond partner stared for a second at the top layer of clothes, and the partner started digging around with his hands. ‘What’s this?’ he asked, pulling out Effi’s script. ‘A Girl from the Mountains?’

  ‘It’s a film script,’ Russell said. ‘My girlfriend’s an actress,’ he added. ‘Her photograph’s inside.’

  The partner extracted it and both men took a good look. ‘I’ve seen her in something,’ the first man said.

  His partner rubbed his chin with forefinger and thumb. ‘I have too.’

  ‘I remember,’ the first man said. ‘She was the wife of that guy who got killed by the Reds…’

  ‘The Necessary Sacrifice,’ Russell suggested helpfully.

  ‘That’s the one. And she’s your girlfriend?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’re a lucky man,’ the partner said, replacing the photograph and closing the suitcase.

  Russell had never heard a more beautiful click. ‘I know it,’ he said with a grateful smile. Suitcase in hand, he walked out through the open doorway, repressing the urge to skip and dance.

  The train pulled into Prague’s Masaryk Station at twenty past seven. On the streets it felt more like midnight – they were dark and mostly deserted, as if the city’s people were all at home, hunched over their radio sets. He had never seen Wenceslas Square so empty, even at four in the morning.

  The Grand was fully operational though, its multi-lingual staff and art nouveau fittings a match for any barbarian invasion. Russell had stayed there twice before, once in the late twenties and once, the previous September, when Chamberlain and Daladier were licking Hitler’s boots in Munich. He asked the receptionist if anything crucial had happened in the last seven hours, and was told that it hadn’t. Monsignor Tiso, he supposed, was still en route to Berlin.

  Russell’s room was on the first floor, at the back. Apart from the lack of a view it seemed thoroughly adequate. But then, after those few
moments at the frontier, a pigsty would have seemed adequate, provided it was in Czechoslovakia. He dumped the unopened suitcase on the bed and went back down in search of dinner.

  The hotel restaurant also seemed a lot emptier than usual, but the baked carp, fruit dumplings and South Moravian white wine were all delicious. A walk seemed in order, but he reluctantly decided against one – his train left at 11.40 on the following morning and he was anxious for the Soviets to collect their papers. The thought of having to dump them in the Vltava was more than he could bear.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Shortly before ten he answered a familiar-sounding tap on his door, and found Irina Borskaya anxiously glancing up the corridor. ‘Come in,’ he said superfluously – she had already dodged under his arm. She was wearing the same long, charcoal grey skirt, but a different blouse. Her hair seemed a shade lighter, and this time there was a hint of bright red lipstick on her thin lips.

  ‘The papers,’ she said, sitting down on the upright chair.

  ‘It’s nice to see you too,’ Russell said, opening the suitcase. After dumping his possessions onto the bed, he clicked the false bottom open, removed the sheaf of papers he’d picked up in Gaarden, and handed it over.

  ‘What are those?’ she asked, as he placed the envelope containing McKinley’s papers on the bedside table.

  ‘A story I’m working on.’

  She gave him a disbelieving look, but said nothing. After flicking through the naval dispositions, she reached inside her blouse and brought out a money clip containing Swiss Franc notes. High denomination Swiss Franc notes. ‘We promised to pay you well,’ she said, as if reprimanding him for any possible doubts he might have had on that score.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s been a pleasure doing business with you.’

  ‘There is no need for the pleasure to end,’ she said. ‘We have other work…’

  ‘No,’ Russell said firmly. ‘We had a simple deal – you helped my friend out of Germany, I brought your papers to Prague. We’re quits. I wish the Soviet Union well, but not well enough to die for it.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, rising from the chair and cradling the papers in one arm. The fact that she had no obvious place to conceal them led Russell to the conclusion that her room was close to his own. ‘If that is how you feel,’ she told him, ‘then we understand. And we thank you for what you have done.’

  Somewhat astonished by the ease with which his resignation had been accepted, Russell opened the door for her.

  ‘When are you leaving?’ she asked.

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Then have a good journey.’ She put her head out, glanced to left and right, and walked off down the corridor in the direction of the stairs. The whole encounter had taken less than five minutes.

  Before going downstairs next morning Russell wrote a short covering letter to McKinley’s editor in San Francisco, explaining how he had come by the papers and offering his own brief summary of their significance. After breakfast in the hotel restaurant he walked around the corner to the main post office on Jindrisská, bought and addressed a large envelope, and asked for the quickest possible delivery. ‘It’ll be gone before he gets here,’ the clerk observed, reading Russell’s mind. ‘On the afternoon plane to Paris,’ he added in explanation.

  Satisfied, Russell walked back to the Grand, collected his suitcase and checked out. He was early for the train but he liked Masaryk Station, and he liked the idea of being closer to home.

  As it turned out, it didn’t matter, because he no longer had a seat or even standing room on the train. Two carriages, including his own, had been commandeered by President Hacha and his swollen entourage. The Czech President, Russell gathered from discussions with sundry railway officials, had also been ‘invited’ to Berlin, and a heart condition prohibited him from flying. Russell was assured that two extra carriages would be added to the night train, but no one seemed capable of explaining why they couldn’t be added to this one.

  Oh well, Russell thought, there were many worse places to spend a day than Prague. As President Hacha and his dicey heart were about to find out.

  He left the suitcase in the left luggage, took a tram back to the town centre, and spent the next couple of hours ambling down the east bank of the river. The Czech flag was still flying from the ramparts of the famous castle, but for how long? A few days at most, Russell thought, and the city’s residents seemed to agree with him. As he walked back through the old town in search of a late lunch, he noticed rapidly lengthening queues at one baker after another. News of Hacha’s trip had obviously spread.

  This was it, Russell thought – the end of any lingering hopes for peace. There was no way of presenting this as part of some grand scheme to bring Germans home to the Reich. Hitler had thrown off the cloak. It was no longer if, but when.

  The sight of an orthodox Jew on Národní Street reminded him of Albert. Long gone, he hoped, but what of Czechoslovakia’s 100,000 Jews? What were they doing this afternoon? Crowding the stations, loading their cars – or just sitting tight and hoping for the best, as so many German Jews had done? This orthodox Jew had a bagful of groceries, and seemed in no hurry to go anywhere.

  He thought about what Albert had said during the drive to Görlitz, that kindness had become more worthy of note, and more interesting to fathom, than cruelty. It was certainly harder to find.

  With darkness falling he sought out a bar, and sampled several different Bohemian beers. Each tasted better than the last. He raised a toast to McKinley’s papers, now hopefully resting in some Parisian sorting-office, and another to McKinley himself. From time to time, over the last six weeks, he had found himself wondering why they had killed the young American. It was the wrong question to ask, he realised. It was like asking why they had killed Felix Wiesner. They might have had, or thought they had, particular motives, but the real reason was much simpler – they were killers. It was what they were. It was, in truth, all that they were.

  The cold air streaming through his cab’s broken window kept him awake on his way back to the station, but once ensconced in the overheated train he soon found himself falling asleep. The jerk of departure woke him for long enough to recline his seat, and the last thing he remembered was that he should have phoned Effi.

  The next thing he knew he was waking with a sudden feeling of panic. He looked at his watch. Almost three hours had passed – they had to be nearing the frontier. But that didn’t matter any more, he told himself. His subconscious was obviously stuck on the outward journey.

  And then it occurred to him. He had never closed the false bottom. After Borskaya had gone he had just shifted the suitcase onto the floor, and this morning he had simply shovelled all the clothes back in.

  The thought of another wrestle with a suitcase in a toilet made him groan, but it had to be done. He took it down from the overhead rack, and carried it out to the vestibule at the end of the car. Shading his eyes with his hands, and sticking his face up against the window, he could just make out the river running beside the tracks.

  Inside the toilet he opened the suitcase, threw all the clothes on the floor, and went to close the false bottom.

  It was already closed.

  He stood there for a few moments, thinking back. When had he done it?

  He hadn’t.

  Clicking it open, he found several sheets of paper hidden inside. Holding the first one up to the dim light of the cubicle, he found that it contained a list of names and addresses – six under Ruhr, three under Hamburg. The other sheets – there were nine of them – followed a similar pattern. There were almost a hundred people listed, from all the different parts of Germany.

  Who were they? No indication was given, none at all. But one thing was certain – the Soviets meant them to be discovered. That was why Borskaya had asked him when he was leaving, Russell thought – they had been inserted while he was downstairs at breakfast or out posting McKinley’s papers. That was why she’d accepted his resi
gnation so easily. And the money – that worked both ways. Such generosity might keep him working for them, but if it didn’t, it could be turned into a threat – possession of so much foreign currency would be hard to explain.

  The names, he realised, had to be German communists – real or imaginary. Were these men and women whom Stalin wanted culled, but who were beyond his reach? Or was the list a work of fiction, something to keep the Gestapo busy while the real communists got on with their work? A bit of both, Russell guessed. A few real communists to keep the Gestapo believing, and then the wild goose chase.

  He shivered at the nearness of his escape, and realised that the train was slowing down. He shoved the suitcase to the floor, yanked up the lid of the toilet, and started tearing the sheets of paper into smaller and smaller pieces. Once these were all in the bowl he reached for the lever, filled with the sudden dread that it wouldn’t work.

  It didn’t. As beads of cold sweat multiplied on his forehead, Russell worked the lever again. It coughed up some water, but nowhere near enough.

  There was a heavy knock on the door. ‘We are approaching the frontier,’ a German voice said.

  ‘Right,’ Russell shouted back. What should he do? Try and swallow all the bits of paper, along with whatever international germs the toilet bowl had been saving for him? Anything but that.

  The train was still decelerating. He looked for some access to the toilet’s workings, but everything was screwed down. He tried the lever one more time, more out of habit than hope, and for reasons known only to God it flushed. He stood there, revelling in the sight of empty water, until sweet relief gave way to a nightmare vision of Gestapo officers combing the tracks for all the pieces and painstakingly gluing them back together.

  ‘Get a grip,’ he murmured to himself. He picked up the suitcase, clicked the false bottom shut, and covered it with clothing retrieved from the floor. As he left the toilet he caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror, and wished he hadn’t. He looked deranged.