Zoo Station (18 page)

Theres nothing to connect me, she said. Except you, she added, the look of alarm back on her face.

They wont hear about you from me, Russell promised her, hoping he could live up to such an assurance.

Thank you, she said doubtfully, as if she wasnt that sure either. And their secret will stay secret, she added, as much to herself as to him.

Looks like it.

She nodded, her view of the world confirmed.

Ill be going, he said.

Let me make sure theres no one about, she cautioned him. A few moments later she returned. Its all clear.

Russell smiled goodbye at a closing door and began the long walk back to the center of Neukolln. The Fuhrer was well into his stride now, each torrent of words reinforced by the sound of his fist hammering at the lectern. By the time Russell reached KaDeWe the listening crowd had spilled into the street, all eyes raised to the crackling loudspeaker, as if Hitler would emerge genie-like from the mesh, a head spouting venom on a shimmering tail.

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME
he reached Effis flat. She was wearing a dress he hadnt seen before, deep red with a black lace collar. And she wanted to eat out, at a Chinese restaurant which had opened a few weeks earlier at the Halensee end of the Kudamm.

Ive been learning my lines, she announced as they walked downstairs. Would you hear me later?

It was a peace offering, Russell realized. Love to, he told her.

They walked through to the Kudamm and took a westbound tram. The wide pavements were crowded with home-going workers, the restaurants and cinemas gearing up for the evening as the shops closed down. Alighting at Lehninerplatz they found the Chinese restaurant already filling up. Goering eats here, Effi said, as if in explanation.

He eats everywhere, Russell said. And this is on me, he added.

Effi gave him a look.

Ive sold a lot of work lately, he explained.

They were shown to their table, which stood beneath a huge scroll of dragons. Russell picked up the menu, hoping it was in German, but neednt have bothered.

Let me order, Effi said.

Include beer, Russell insisted. He was still feeling tense, he realized. And maybe still a little in shock. Sitting there, half-listening as Effi questioned the waiter, he found himself imagining McKinleys deaththe moment of falling, of realization. Of terror. How was your weekend? he asked.

Miserable. You know I hate going to parties on my own. All the women I know were lining up to ask if youd left menone of them asked whether Id left youand all the men were trying to work out how available I was, without actually asking. Every conversation was fraught with significance. Every dance was a means to an end. I couldnt just
be
for a single moment. When I go to something like that with you, I can just enjoy myself. She sighed. Anyway, the party went to about six, so I got to bed about seven, and the Kripo started hammering on the door at about nine. So I wasnt in a good mood. And I was upset for you too. I know you liked him, even if he was a bit Rin Tin Tin-like. And I could just see it too. Zoo Station gets so crowded on a Saturday evening. She watched a tray of food go by, and sniffed at the passing aroma. And Zarahs such a misery as well. Shes convinced theres something wrong with Lothar. I tell her shes jumping to conclusions, that hes probably just a slow learner. She was herself, according to Muti. But shes convinced theres something wrong. Shes made an appointment with a specialist.

When for? Russell asked.

Oh, I dont know. Next week sometime. I think she said Monday. Why?

Just wondered. The arrival of their drinks gave Russell a few seconds to think. He couldnt say anything, he realized. And he probably didnt need to. Zarahs husband Jens was a Party official, and Russell couldnt believe the Nazis would start killing their own children. And if he did say anything to Effi, and she said something to Zarah, then he might end up in a Gestapo cellar trying to explain where hed gotten his information from.

You look worried, Effi said.

Ive heard a few rumors, thats all. Just journalist talk probably. The word is that the governments thinking of tightening up the Law on the Prevention of Hereditary Diseases. Sanctioning mercy killing when the parents agree.

She gave him an angry look. Theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she said. And even if there was, Zarah would never agree to. . . . I cant believe you think. . . .

I dont. But Jens is a Nazi, after all. He believes in all this purification of the race nonsense.

Effi snorted. Maybe he does. But if he tried to take Lothar away from Zarah shed never forgive him. And he knows it.

Okay.

And theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she insisted once more.

HE READ THE FUHRERS SPEECH
next morning on his way home for a change of clothes. The editorials were calling it a major contribution to world peace, and the speech certainly seemed accommodating by Hitlers standards. There were friendly references to Poland and the non-aggression pact between the two countries. There was a marked absence of attacks on the Soviet Union. Only one passage chilled Russell to the bone, and that concerned the Jews, who were only likely to start a war in Hitlers frenzied imagination. If they did, the result would not be the Bolshevization of the earth and victory for the Jews but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe. Russell wondered how the Wiesners felt reading that, even if Hitler was not speaking about physical annihilation. At least he hoped he wasnt. He remembered Alberts words in the Friedrichshain park: Theyll just kill us. . . . Whos going to stop them?

Frau Heidegger had listened to the speech and found only grounds for optimism. Therell be an agreement with the Poles, she said. Like the one with the Czechs at Munich. And then therell be nothing more to fight over.

Russell said he hoped she was right.

The police were back yesterday, she went on. Herr McKinleys sister will be here on Wednesday or Thursday to collect his things.

I know, Russell told her. They want me to interpret for them.

Thats nice, Frau Heidegger said.

Once upstairs, Russell bathed, changed, and worked for a couple of hours planning his transport piece for
Pravda
. Autobahns and the peoples car, streamlined trains and new U-bahn lines, the latest Dornier flying boats. Perhaps a hint of regret for the passing of the Zeppelins, he thought, but absolutely no mention of the
Hindenburg
.

He fried up a potato omelette for lunch, found a dusty bottle of beer to accompany it, and reluctantly considered the prospect of interviewing Hitlers armament workers for Stalin. It could be done, he supposed, but hed have to be damn careful. Start off by talking to the Party people in the factory, the managers and Labor Front officials. Only move out onto the metaphorical lake if the ice feels really solid. Dont do a McKinley.

He thought about the missing letter. If he was going to take a look around the Americans room it had to be today.

He walked down to the ground floor, and tapped on Frau Heideggers open door. Have you still got a spare key for Tylers room? he asked. I loaned him some books, and it would be awkward searching for them when his sisters here, so I thought I could slip in and get them today. You dont need to come up, he added quickly, hoping that Frau Heideggers bad knees would triumph over her curiosity.

They did. Make sure you bring it back, she told him.

McKinleys room was still suffused with the faint odor of his Balkan tobacco. As Frau Heidegger had intimated, the room was almost preternaturally tidy, and now he knew why the Kripo had refrained from leaving their usual mess. A senators nephew! No wonder they were on their best behavior.

The clothes were neatly put away: shirts, jacket and suit in the wardrobe, socks and underwear in drawers. There was a small pile of papers on the deskleft for show, Russell guessed. He remembered two great towers of paper on his last visit. The desk, too, had been mostly emptied. One drawer contained a single eraser, another, three pencils. It was as if the Kripo had decided to spread things out.

There was no obvious reduction in the number of books, but the lines on the shelves seemed anything but neat. Each had been taken out and checked for insertions, Russell assumed. Well, at least that meant he didnt have to.

The same applied to the floorboards. The Kripo werent amateurs. Far from it.

He sat on McKinleys bed, wondering why hed imagined he could find something which they couldnt. The shelf above the headboard was full of crime novels, all in English. More than fifty, Russell guessed: Dashiell Hammett, Edgar Wallace, Dorothy L. Sayers, several authors he hadnt heard of. There were around a dozen Agatha Christies, and a similar number of Saint books. Russells earlier notion that McKinley had stolen an idea from one of these stories still seemed a good one, but the only way of finding out for certain was to go through them all, and that would take forever.

And what would he do with the letter if he found it? He had no proof of its authenticity, and without such proof there was little chance of anonymously arranging its publication outside Germany. He would have to guarantee it with what was left of his own reputation, either risking arrest by doing so inside Germany or forfeiting his residence by doing so from the safety of England. Neither course appealed to him. And their secret will stay secret, he murmured to himself. He took one last look around the room and took the key back to Frau Heidegger.

EARLY THAT EVENING HE
telephoned Paul. The conversation seemed unusually awkward at first. His son seemed happy to talk, but there was something in his voice which worried Russell, some faint edge of resentment that was quite possibly unconscious. His
Jungvolk
group had spent much of Saturday making model gliders out of balsa wood and glue, something which Paul had obviously enjoyed, and on the coming Saturday they were visiting an airfield to examine the real thing. At school a new music teacher had given them a talk on the different types of music, and how some of themjazz for examplewere fatally tainted by their racial origins. He had even played several pieces on the school gramophone, pointing out what he called animal rhythms. I suppose hes right, Paul said. I mean, jazz was invented by negroes, wasnt it? But most of my friends thought the records he played were really good, he admitted.

Russell searched in vain for an adequate response.

What are you doing? Paul asked, somewhat unusually.

This and that, Russell said. Paul was probably too old to have nightmares about falling under trains, but it wasnt worth the risk. Actually Im looking for something that someone hid, he said. If the Saint wants to hide something, how does he do it? he asked, not really expecting an answer.

What sort of thing?

Oh, money, a letter. . . .

Thats easy. He sends it to himself. At awhat do you call it?

Poste restante.

Thats it. He sends diamonds to himself in
Getaway
and
The High Fence
. And he does it in another story, I think. I cant remember which, though. . . .

Russell was no longer listening. Of course. If McKinley had forgotten the Saints trick, then Theresas use of the poste restante would have reminded him. His heart sank. There was no way of collecting anything from a poste restante without identification. McKinleys sister could probably get access, but only by asking permission from the police.

Dad, are you listening?

Yes, sorryI think youve solved it for me.

Oh.

And Im reading the book you loaned me, he added, eager to please his son.

Isnt it great?

Its pretty good, Russell agreed, though hed only read thirty pages. I havent got far, he admitted, hoping to ward off a cross-examination. Ill talk to you about it on Saturday.

Okay. On Sunday are we getting the train from Anhalter Bahnhof?

I expect so. Ill let you know. Actually, a different means of transport was suggesting itself.

THE FIRST DAY OF FEBRUARY
was as gray as nature intended. His Wednesday morning lesson with Ruth and Marthe was enjoyable as ever, but there was no sign of their brother or parents. Arriving back at Alexanderplatz with twenty minutes to spare he stopped for a coffee in Wertheim and ran into Doug Conway. They chatted for a few minutes, until Russell realized he was late for his appointment. The search for Oehms office made him even later, and McKinleys sister was looking none-too-happy when he finally arrived.

We were talking about Fraulein McKinleys flying boat, Oehm said, which further explained her look of irritation.

She was almost as tall as her brotherabout five-foot-eleven, he guessedand even thinner. Severely cut brunette hair framed a face that might have been pretty if the already-thin lips had not been half-pursed in disapproval, but Russell sensed that her current expression was the one she most usually presented to the world. She was wearing a cream blouse and smart, deep blue suit. There was no hint of black and no obvious sign of grief in her face. He told himself that shed had several days to take it all in.

He introduced himself and offered his condolences.

Eleanor McKinley, she responded. Tyler never mentioned you.

We werent close friends, just neighbors. Im here because the police thought an interpreter would make things easier for everyone. Have they told you what happened?

Oh, we got all the details from the Germany Embassy in Washington. A man came out to the house and explained everything.

Russell wondered what to say next. He found it hard to credit that the family believed Tyler had committed suicide, but it was hardly his place to question it, particularly with Oehm trying to follow their conversation.

The German interrupted. There are papers to sign. He passed them to Russell. If you could. . . .

Russell looked through them, and then explained the gist to Eleanor McKinley. There are two things here. One is an account of the investigation, complete with witness statements and the police conclusion that Tyler committed suicide. They need your signature to sign off on the case. The other form waives your familys right to an inquest. This is because youre taking him home with you.

I understand, she said.

Ill read it through, then.

No, no, dont bother, she said, extracting a pack of Chesterfields from her handbag. You wont mind if I smoke? she asked Oehm, holding up a cigarette in explanation.

Russell was taken aback. You understand that youre accepting their version of events, that this exempts them from any further investigation? he asked.

Are there any other versions? she asked.

No. I just wanted to be sure you knew that this puts an end to any. . . .

Good, she interrupted. She made a writing mime at Oehm, who handed her his pen.

Here and here, Russell said, placing the papers in front of her. She signed both, writing Eleanor V. McKinley in a large looping hand.

Is that it? she asked.

Thats it.

What about Tylers . . . what about the body?

Russell asked Oehm. It was still in the morgue, he thought, reaching for the phone.

It was. They need her for a formal identification before they can release it, Oehm told Russell in German. But not nowtheyre still trying to repair his face. If she comes at eleven in the morning theyll have plenty of time to seal it for transport and get it across to Lehrter.

Russell relayed the salient points.

Cant we do it now? she asked.

No, Im afraid not.

She made a face, but didnt press the issue. All right. Well, lets get out of this dreadful place. She offered Oehm her hand and the briefest of smiles, and headed for the door. I suppose I can get the apartment over with instead, she said as they walked back to the entrance. Youll come with me, she added. It was more of an assumption than a question.

They took a taxi. She said nothing as they drove through the old city, just stared out of the window. As they swung through Spittelmarkt toward Donhoffplatz and the bottom of Lindenstrasse she murmured something to herself, then turned to Russell and said: Ive never seen such a gray city.

The weather doesnt help, he said.

She was even less impressed with Neuenburgerstrasse. Frau Heidegger climbed the stairs to let them in, and insisted that Russell pass on her deepest condolences. And tell Fraulein McKinley how much I liked her brother, she added. How much we all did.

Russell did as he was bid, and McKinleys sister flashed another of her brief smiles in Frau Heideggers direction. Tell her wed like to be alone, she said in English.

Russell passed on the message. Frau Heidegger looked slightly hurt, but disappeared down the stairs.

Eleanor sat down on the bed looking, for the first time, as if her brothers death meant something to her.

Now was the moment, Russell thought. He had to say something. I find it hard to believe that your brother killed himself, he said tentatively.

She sighed. Well, he did. One way or another.

Im sorry. . . .

She got up and walked to the window. I dont know how much you knew about Tylers work. . . .

I knew he was working on something important.

Exposing some terrible Nazi plot? she asked.

Maybe. She was angry, he realized. Furious.

Well, that was a pretty effective way of committing suicide, wouldnt you say?

Russell bit back an answer. Hed said much the same thing to McKinley himself.

Look at this, she said, surveying the room. The life he chose, she said bitterly.

That you couldnt, Russell thought. He silently abandoned the idea of asking for her help in checking out the poste restante.

She picked up McKinleys pipe, looked around, and took one of his socks to wrap it in. Ill take this, she said. Can you get rid of the rest?

Yes, but. . . .

I cant imagine it would be much use to anyone else.

Okay.

He accompanied her downstairs and out to the waiting taxi.

Thank you for your help, she said. I dont suppose youre free tomorrow morning? I could use some help at the morgue. My train leaves at three and I cant afford any hold-ups. And some moral support would be nice, she added, as if it had just occurred to her that identifying her brother might involve an emotional toll. Ill buy you lunch.

Russell felt like refusing, but he had no other appointments. Be generous, he told himself. Its a deal, he said.

Pick me up at the Adlon, she told him. Around ten-thirty.

He watched the cab turn the corner onto Lindenstrasse and disappear. He felt sorry for McKinley, and perhaps even sorrier for his sister.

HE ARRIVED AT THE ADLON
just before 10:00, and found Jack Slaney sitting behind a newspaper in the tea room. Ive got something for you, Russell said, sitting down and counting out the ninety Reichsmarks he owed from their last poker game.

A sudden inheritance? Slaney asked.

Something like that.

What are you doing here? the American asked, as he gestured the waiter over to order coffees.

Russell told him.

He was a nice kid, Slaney said. Shame about his family.

The uncles not one of your favorite senators?

Slaney laughed. Hes a big friend of the Nazis. Anti-Semitic through and throughthe usual broken record. On the one hand, we should be leaving Europe alone, on the other, we should be realizing that Britain and France are on their last legs and Germanys a progressive power-house, our natural ally. Bottom lineits just business as usual. The Senators brotherMcKinleys dadhas a lot of money invested here. One plant in Dusseldorf, another in Stuttgart. Theyll do well out of a war, as long as we stay out of it.

The daughters not exactly soft and cuddly, Russell admitted.

I know. Hey! Slaney interrupted himself. Have you heard the latest? Over the weekend some Swedish member of Parliament nominated Hitler for the Nobel Peace Prize. Wrote a letter of recommendation and everything. Slaney flipped back the pages of his notebook. He praised Hitlers glowing love of peace, heretofore best documented in his famous book
Mein Kampf
.

A spoof, right?

Of course. But at least one German paper missed that bit. They printed the whole thing as if it was completely kosher. He threw back his head and laughed out loud, drawing stares from across the room.

At 10:30 Russell asked the receptionist to let Eleanor know he was in the lobby. She appeared a couple of minutes later. The suit was a deep crimson this time, and she was wearing a silk scarf that was a shimmering gold. Her heels were higher than on the previous day, the seams of her stockings straight as arrows. The fur coat looked expensive. It doesnt look like theyre getting ready for a war, she said, as their cab motored down Unter den Linden.

The morgue was ready for them. McKinleys body was laid out on a stretcher in the middle of the spacious cold storeroom. She marched confidently forward, heels clicking on the polished floor, then suddenly faltered and looked back at Russell. He came forward, took her arm, and together they advanced on the stretcher.

A white sheet concealed whatever injuries her brother had suffered below the neck. The familiar shock of dark hair had been burned away at the front, and the entire left side of his face looked blackened beneath the morticians make-up. The eyes looked as though theyd been re-inserted in their sockets; one was not quite closed, and presumably never would be again. The bottom lip had been sewn back on, probably after McKinley had bitten clean through it. An angry red-brown wound extended around the Americans neck above the uppermost edge of sheet, causing Russell to wonder whether he had been decapitated.

Its him, Eleanor said in a voice quivering with control. She signed the necessary documentation on the small table by the door and left the room without a backward glance. During the first part of their ride back to the Adlon she sat in silence, staring out of the window, an angry expression on her face. As they crossed over Friedrichstrasse she asked Russell how long hed lived in Berlin, but hardly listened to his answer.

Come up, she said when they reached the lobby, and gave him a quick glance to make sure he hadnt read anything into the invitation.

Her suite was modest, but a suite just the same. An open suitcase sat on the bed, half-filled with clothes, surrounded by bits and pieces. Ill only be a minute, she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

An item on the bed had already caught Russells eyeone of the small gray canvas bags that the Kripo used for storing personal effects.

There was no sound from the bathroom. Now or never, he told himself.

He took one stride to the bed, loosened the string, and looked inside the bag. It was almost empty. He poured the contents onto the bed and sorted through them with his fingers. A reporters notebookalmost empty. German notesalmost 300 Reichsmarks worth. McKinleys press accreditation. His passport.

The toilet flushed.

Russell slipped the passport into his pocket, rammed the rest back into the bag, tightened the string, and stepped hastily away from the bed.

She came out of the bathroom, looked at the mess on the bed, staring, or so it seemed to Russell, straight at the bag. She reached down, picked it up . . . and placed it in the suitcase. I thought wed eat here, she said.

FIVE MINUTES LATER,
they were being seated in the hotel restaurant. Having locked her brother away in some sort of emotional box, she chatted happily about America, her dog, the casting of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett OHara in the new film of
Gone with the Wind
. It was all very brittle, but brittle was what she was.

After they had eaten he watched her look around the room, and tried to see it through her eyes: a crowd of smart people, most of the women fashionably dressed, many of the men in perfectly tailored uniforms. Eating good food, drinking fine wines. Just like home.

Do you think therell be a war? she asked abruptly.

Probably, he said.

But what could they gain from one? she asked, genuinely puzzled. I mean, you can see how prosperous the country is, how content. Why risk all that?

Russell had no wish to talk politics with her. He shrugged agreement with her bewilderment and asked how the flight across the Atlantic had been.

Awful, she said. So noisy, though I got used to that after a while. But its a horrible feeling, being over the middle of the ocean and knowing that theres no help for thousands of miles.

Are you going back the same way?

Oh no. It was Daddy who insisted I come that way. He thought it was important that I got here quickly, though I cant imagine why. No, Im going back by ship. From Hamburg. My train leaves at three, she added, checking her watch. Will you take me to the station?

Of course.

Upstairs he watched her cram her remaining possessions into the suitcase, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when she asked him to close it for her. A taxi took them to the Lehrter Bahnhof, where the D-Zug express was already waiting in its platform, car attendants hovering at each door.

Thank you for your help, she said, holding out a hand.

Im sorry about the circumstances, Russell said.

Yes, she agreed, but more in exasperation than sadness. As he turned away she was reaching for her cigarettes.

Near the front of the train three porters were manhandling a coffin into the baggage car. Russell paused in his stride, and watched as they set it down with a thump by the far wall. Show some respect, he felt like saying, but what was the point? He walked on, climbing the steps to the Stadtbahn platforms which hung above the mainline stations throat. A train rattled in almost instantly, and three minutes later he was burrowing down to the U-bahn platforms at Friedrichstrasse. He read an abandoned
Volkischer Beobachter
on the journey to Neukolln, but the only item of interest concerned the Party student leader in Heidelberg. He had forbidden his students from dancing the Lambeth Walka jaunty Cockney dance, recently popularized on the London stageon the grounds that it was foreign to the German way of life, and incompatible with National Socialist behavior.

How many Germans, Russell wondered, were itching to dance the Lambeth Walk?

Not the family in Zembskis studio, that was certain. They were there to have their portrait taken, the father in SA uniform, the wife in her church best, the three blond daughters all in pigtails, wearing freshly ironed BdM uniforms. Nazi heaven.

Russell watched as the big Silesian lumbered around, checking the lighting and the arrangement of the fake living room setting. Finally he was satisfied. Smile, he said, and clicked the shutter. One more, he said, and smile this time. The wife did; the girls tried, but the father was committed to looking stern.