Stattin Station (14 page)
His contorted face looked almost fiendish in the dim yellow light. 'Mind your own fucking business,' he shouted. 'Who the fuck do you think you are? You look like a fucking Jew yourself.' He flicked out a hand, making contact with her left breast. 'Where's
your
fucking badge?'
'Back off, you bastard,' Russell said, giving the man a solid shove in the chest. He had no doubt that he could knock this one down, but the other three might prove more of a problem. 'What's the matter with you? Is this your idea of a good time - bullying women?'
'They're Jews, for fuck's sake,' the man shouted, as if that rendered all other considerations null and void.
'So fucking what?' Russell shouted back.
Effi had rarely seen him so angry. The tram, she noticed, had almost come to a halt. 'Go,' she told the Jewish girls, and they needed no second bidding. The elder one pulled the doors open, and they both tumbled down to the street and out into the darkness.
Russell and the
Arbeitsfront
official were still eyeball to eyeball, glued in place by their mutual loathing. 'John, let's go,' Effi said peremptorily, holding the door with one hand and tugging at his sleeve with the other.
It broke the spell. Russell beamed at the still-raging face in front of him, and turned to follow her. Stepping off, he heard a woman's voice inside the tram say, 'I'm sure that was Effi Koenen.'
Russell told Thomas the story at lunch next day, although not before checking the underside of their tables and chairs for listening devices. The ceilings in the Russischer Hof dining rooms were exceptionally high, so the chandeliers at least were free of bugs.
'I'm amazed that I didn't slug him,' he told Thomas. 'I don't know what stopped me. When he punched Effi in the breast... But I'm glad that I didn't, because God knows what would have happened. I'd have been flattened by his friends, and Effi would have joined in and probably been flattened too. And the two Jewish girls might have been caught and arrested and put on the next train out.'
'You said it was Effi who blew up first.'
'Yes, but I'm usually there to calm things down, not make them worse.'
'That would seem to work better than the two of you egging each other on,' Thomas said with a wry smile. 'Still, it doesn't look like you'll be around for much longer.'
'What have you heard?'
'Oh, nothing specific. Only the usual sources,' he added, meaning the BBC. 'It just looks like things are coming to a head.'
'Hitler might distance himself from a Japanese attack. After all, what would he gain from joining them? There's no way he could help them fight the Americans, but if he keeps out of it, the Americans might reward him by moving most of their forces from the Atlantic to the Pacific.'
'That makes perfect sense,' Thomas agreed, 'but does it sound like our Fuhrer?'
'Perhaps not,' Russell admitted. 'I've been doing a lot of straw-clutching lately.'
'Who isn't?'
His friend was looking noticeably older, Russell thought. The wrinkles around his eyes and the grey in his hair were both spreading. The strain of having a son at the front must be bad enough, without the need to fight an endless rearguard action against the Gestapo in defence of his Jewish workers. 'No word from Joachim?' he asked.
'Oh yes, I meant to tell you. There was a letter yesterday. Just a few words - no specific news. But he's all right. Or at least he was a few days ago.'
'Hanna must be relieved. '
'Yes, of course. Though it gives her more space to worry about Lotte. Our daughter has suddenly decided, for reasons that neither of us can even begin to fathom, to become an exemplary - and I do mean exemplary - member of the
Bund Deutscher Madel
. Three weeks ago she was a normal healthy sixteen-year-old, interested in boys and clothes and film stars. Now she has
his
picture over her bed. I mean, I suppose it's harmless enough, at least for a while; but why, for God's sake? It's as if some malign spirit has taken over the poor girl's brain.'
'At least the Gestapo won't be coming for her,' Russell said.
Thomas laughed. 'There is that.'
'And did you sort out Monday's difficulty?'
'Yes, but they'll be back. It's like building sandcastles - sooner or later the tide rolls over them. Unless there's some basic change of heart, my Jews will be sent away to whatever horrors are waiting for them. And what could provoke one? I sometimes wonder which would be better for the Jews - a quick victory in the East or a bloody stalemate that lasts for years. Victory might endow our leaders with a little magnanimity, whereas defeat would probably make them even nastier. So here I am,' he concluded, raising his glass in mock salute, 'longing for total victory.'
'No one finds a cloud in a silver lining better than you do,' Russell agreed.
They were halfway through dessert - an applecake seriously lacking in apple - when the waiter came round warning the diners that the broadcast was about to begin. He had hardly disappeared when inspirational music began pouring from the speakers.
'Ribbentrop's speech,' Russell remembered. 'Into every life...'
They were onto their ersatz coffees by the time the Foreign Minister began his peroration. Continuing their own conversation proved impossible. 'It's impossible to tune him out,' Thomas said. 'I've actually been thinking about him lately...'
'Why, for God's sake?'
'I've come to see him as the essential Nazi. The absolute distillation of Naziness. And that's why you can't get away from his voice - it's as if the whole system is doing the talking.'
'I would have thought the Fuhrer would take the starring role.'
'He would, he would. No, Ribbentrop isn't a star, much though he'd like to be. He's the Nazi everyman. He loves himself to death, he's not very clever but he thinks he is, he prides himself on his logic and reeks of prejudice, and above all he's crushingly boring.'
'After the war you should write his biography.'
Thomas's laugh was cut short by something he saw over Russell's shoulder. 'Behave,' he whispered, and rose from his chair, hand outstretched. Russell turned to see a tall, greying man with a chiselled face in the uniform of an SS Gruppenfuhrer.
Thomas introduced them, and invited the Gruppenfuhrer to share their table. Much to Russell's relief, the man was with his own party. Russell listened as the other two made arrangements for an afternoon's sailing on the Havel, Ribbentrop's voice droning away behind them.
'It was good to meet you, Herr Russell,' the Gruppenfuhrer said, shaking his hand again. 'You are not a sailor like your brother-in-law?'
'No, but I can see the attraction.'
'You must join us one weekend. Perhaps in the spring when the weather is kinder.'
'Perhaps,' Russell agreed with a smile. He watched the man walk back to his table, where two other black-uniformed officers were waiting for him. 'What powerful friends you have,' he murmured.
'I'll probably be needing them,' Thomas replied. 'Believe it or not, once you get that man out of his uniform and onto a boat he's a decent enough chap.'
'Some of them are.'
'Not that it matters much,' Thomas said. 'Decent or not, the lever that works is self-interest. And since things started looking iffy in Russia, people like the Gruppenfuhrer have started worrying about the world after the war. They're still not expecting defeat, mind you, but they do sense the possibility, and they're looking for some sort of insurance. Being nice to people like me, who've never had anything to do with the Nazis, is one way they can keep a foot in the other camp. Just in case.'
'And that gives you names to wave at the Gestapo.'
'It does. I don't like most of these people, in or out of uniform, but being nice to them doesn't exactly cost me anything.' He looked at his watch. 'I'd better be getting back. I doubt they'll visit us again this week, but I like to be on hand.'
As they stood on the steps outside prior to parting, Thomas looked up at the clear blue sky. 'The English will be back tonight,' he predicted. 'They won't miss the chance of embarrassing Ribbentrop while his guests are in town.'
Thomas headed for the U-Bahn at Friedrichstrasse Station, while Russell went towards Unter de Linden and the Adlon. Ribbentrop's voice rose and fell with each loudspeaker he passed, like ripples of an intermittent headache. Until only a year or so ago people had gathered beside speakers at moments like these, but nowadays they just hurried by, as if the voice was driving them onwards. In the Adlon bar there was no escape, and people were simply shouting above the speech. Russell talked to a couple of his Swedish colleagues, who confirmed his opinion that no other news would be allowed to challenge the Foreign Minister's speech that day. Since he had the entire text in his pocket - copies had been handed out at the noon press conference - there seemed little point in waiting around. He sat himself down at a vacant table and wrote a simple summary of the speech interspersed with ample quotes. An honest evaluation would not be allowed, but should in any case be superfluous. If Russell's readers on the other side of the Atlantic were dim enough to take Ribbentrop's fantasies seriously then he could only wish them a speedy recovery.
His job as a Berlin correspondent was over, he decided. Some time in the next few days he should take the trouble to resign.
Other work beckoned. He stopped off at the Abwehr headquarters on his way home, and was taken straight to Canaris's office. The Admiral seemed slightly surprised that he was willing to visit Prague, a reaction which set faint alarm bells ringing in his mind. Russell told himself it was only Canaris's diffident manner, and chose to ignore them. The arrangements for his meeting with Johann Grashof had still not been finalised, and he was told to see Piekenbrock on Monday morning, prior to catching the overnight train. The promise of air travel was unfortunately rescinded - the Luftwaffe had nothing to spare.
Arriving home before dark, he found Effi memorising her
GPU
lines, and an unusually aromatic casserole simmering on the stove. 'It's nearly the end of the month, so I went mad with our ration coupons,' she explained. And there was a message from the American Consulate. 'A man named Kenyon wants to see you tomorrow, at ten if you can make it. He said it was about contingencies,' she added. 'Whatever that means.'
Russell had no idea. He had met Kenyon a couple of times: once at the American Consulate in Prague in the summer of 1939, and again a few months later after the diplomat's transfer to Berlin. As far as Russell knew, the man had nothing to do with American intelligence, although that might have changed. Or perhaps Dallin had asked for Kenyon's help in persuading Russell to contact the Air Ministry official Franz Knieriem. If so, he'd been wasting his time.
They did, however, have excellent coffee at the Consulate. After ringing and leaving a message for Kenyon that he'd see him the following morning, Russell decided to phone his son. Paul seemed happy to talk for a change, albeit mostly about his growing proficiency with guns. That Saturday, it turned out, he was taking part in a
Hitlerjugend
shooting tournament, and wouldn't be able to see his father. Russell was surprised and upset by the momentary sense of relief this news caused, and almost welcomed the more lasting feelings of guilt which swiftly followed.
Effi, he decided, had heard enough of his agonising in recent days. 'Are you still feeling okay about that script?' he asked.
'It's wonderful,' she said. 'It's a comedy, and either no one's noticed or no one dares to say so. My only worry is that fifty years from now people will think I was taking it seriously. I was thinking - you know those people who dig deep holes in the ground and bury a box of typical things with the date...'
'Time capsules.'
'That's it. Well, I thought I could bury this script with my comments on it.'
'Why not? Let's just hope there are no Nazis around in fifty years to dig it up, particularly if we're still here and the film's become a classic.' She stuck her tongue out at him.
'I don't think you ever told me the storyline.'
'I did, but you were half asleep at the time.'
'Tell me again.'
'All right. I am Olga...'
'A Russian.'
'A
White
Russian. I think they must be further up the race table. Anyway, my parents were killed by the GPU...'
'Which has been the NKVD for almost ten years.'
'That sounds like the sort of detail the writers would have missed. But stop interrupting.'
'Okay.'
'Whatever they're called, they killed my parents. Or one of them did, and I've joined the organisation with the secret intention of tracking him down. I'm also an amazing violinist, by the way, and as the film begins I'm in Riga to give a recital for the International Women's League. I'm in mid-performance when some old man in the audience starts shouting that the League is financed by Jewish interests in Moscow. His proof is that a top GPU agent named Bokscha is also in Riga. Get it? Jews and Bolsheviks hand in glove!
'It gets less subtle as it goes on,' she went on. 'Needless to say, Bokscha is the man who killed my parents. He falls in love with me of course, and we roam around Europe with him organising sabotage and murders on the Kremlin's behalf and me waiting for the perfect moment to betray him. All his meetings are in the same dark cellar, which has portraits of Lenin and Stalin on the walls. The people he's plotting with are almost always Jews, and they laugh a lot together about how stupid and vulnerable everyone else is. Do you detect a theme here? Oh, and there's a sub-plot about this Latvian couple whom I befriend. They're forced to spy for the Soviets, and eventually end up imprisoned in Rotterdam, purely, as far as I can see, so that they can be set free by our invading army. By this time Bokscha and I are both dead. First I tell Moscow that he's a traitor and get him shot, and then I admit to joining the GPU under false pretences and get myself shot. Clever, eh?
'I see what you mean about a lack of subtlety.'
'It's complete nonsense from beginning to end, and I can hardly wait to start shooting.'
'Monday, yes?' Russell asked, dipping a spoon into the casserole.
'Yes.'
'Any location stuff?'
'All indoors for the first few weeks. Mostly the cellar, in fact.'
Russell laughed. 'This is ready,' he said, taking the casserole off the stove.
They were still eating when the air raid warning sounded, and Effi insisted on clearing her plate before they walked to the local shelter. This was a very different type of district to the one where the Blumenthals lived, and the local warden was as obsequious as theirs had been officious. Most of the adults had pained expressions on their faces, as if they found it hard to believe that such inconvenience was really necessary. Their children were better behaved than their Wedding counterparts, but seemed to laugh a lot less. It was after midnight before the all-clear sounded, freeing them all to grumble their way back up to the street.
On Thursday morning, Russell's tram downtown passed evidence of the previous night's raid, the wreck of a three-storey building like a broken tooth in an otherwise healthy row, roofless and gutted, surrounded by shards of broken glass. A few wisps of smoke were still rising from the ruin, and a sizable crowd was gathered outside, watching as the civil engineers made the neighbouring buildings safe. It was a sign of how little impact the RAF campaign was having, Russell thought, that one bombed house could still attract so much interest.
