Zoo Station (19 page)

Russell wondered what was going through Zembskis mind at moments like this. He had only known the Silesian for a few years, but hed heard of him long before that. In the German communist circles which he and Ilse had once frequented, Zembski had been known as a reliable source for all sorts of photographic services, and strongly rumored to be a key member of the Pass-Apparat, the Berlin-based Comintern factory for forged passports and other documents. Russell had never admitted his knowledge of Zembskis past. But it was one of the reasons why he used him for his photographic needs. That and the fact that he liked the man. And his low prices.

He watched as Zembski ushered the family out into the street with promises of prints by the weekend. Closing the door behind them he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Is smiling so hard? he asked rhetorically. But of course, hell love it. I only hope the wife doesnt get beaten to a pulp for looking happy. He walked across to the arc lights and turned them off. And what can I do for you, Mister Russell?

Russell nodded toward the small office which adjoined the studio.

Zembski looked at him, shrugged, and gestured him in. Two chairs were squeezed in on either side of a desk. I hope its pornography rather than politics, he said once they were inside. Though these days its hard to tell the difference.

Russell showed him McKinleys passport. I need my photograph in this. I was hoping youd either do it for me or teach me how to do it myself.

Zembski looked less than happy. What makes you think Id know?

I was in the Party myself once.

Zembskis eyebrows shot up. Ah. A lots changed since then, my friend.

Yes, but theyre probably still using the same glue on passports. And you probably remember which remover to use.

Zembski nodded. Not the sort of thing you forget. He studied McKinleys passport. Who is he?

Was. Hes the American journalist who jumped in front of a train at Zoo Station last weekend. Allegedly jumped.

Better and better, the Silesian said dryly. He opened a drawer, pulled out a magnifying glass, and studied the photograph. Looks simple enough.

Youll do it?

Zembski leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak with apprehension. Why not?

How much?

Ah. That depends. Whats it for? I dont want details, he added hurriedly, just some assurance that it wont end up on a Gestapo desk.

I need it to recover some papers. For a story.

Not a Fuhrer-friendly story?

No.

Then Ill give you a discount for meaning well. But itll still cost you a hundred Reichsmarks.

Fair enough.

Cash.

Right.

Ill take the picture now then, Zembski said, maneuvering his bulk out of the confined space and through the door into the studio. A plain background, he muttered out loud as he studied the original photograph. Thisll do, he said, pushing a screen against a wall and placing a stool in front of it.

Russell sat on it.

Zembski lifted his camera, tripod and all, and placed it in position. After feeding in a new film, he squinted through the lens. Try and look like an American, he ordered.

How the hell do I do that? Russell asked.

Look optimistic.

Ill try. He did.

I said optimistic, not doe-eyed.

Russell grinned, and the shutter clicked.

Lets try a serious one, Zembski ordered.

Russell pursed his lips.

The shutter clicked again. And again. And several more times. Thatll do, the Silesian said at last. Ill have it for you on Monday.

Thanks. Russell stood up. One other thing. You dont by any chance know of a good place to pick up a secondhand car?

Zembski dida cousin in Wedding owned a garage which often had cars to sell. Tell him I sent you, he said, after giving Russell directions, and you may get another discount. We Silesians are all heart, he added, chins wobbling with merriment.

Russell walked the short distance back to the U-bahn, then changed his mind and took a seat in the shelter by the tram stop. Gazing back down the brightly lit Berlinerstrasse toward Zembskis studio, he wondered whether hed just crossed a very dangerous line. No, he reassured himself, all hed done was commission a false passport. He would cross the line when he made use of it.

AFTER TEACHING THE WIESNER
girls the next morning, Russell headed across town in search of Zembskis cousin. He found the garage on one of Weddings back streets, sandwiched between a brewery and the back wall of a locomotive depot, about half a kilometer from the Lehrter Station. Zembskis cousin Hunder was also a large man, and looked a lot fitter than Zembski. He seemed to have half a dozen young men working for him, most of them barely beyond school age.

The cars for sale were lined around the back. There were four of them: a Hanomag, an Opel, a Hansa-Lloyd, and another Opel. Any color you want as long as its black, Russell murmured.

We can re-spray, Hunder told him.

No, blacks good, Russell said. The more anonymous the better, he thought. How much are they? he asked.

Hunder listed the prices. Plus a ten percent discount for a friend of my cousin, he added. And a full tank. And a months guarantee.

The larger Hansa-Lloyd looked elegant, but was way out of Russells monetary reach. And he had never liked the look of Opels.

Can I take the Hanomag out for a drive? he asked.

You do know how? Hunder inquired.

Yes. He had driven lorries in the War, and much later he and Ilse had actually owned a car, an early Ford, which had died ignominiously on the road to Potsdam soon after their marriage met a similar fate.

He climbed into the driving-seat, waved the nervous-looking Hunder a cheerful goodbye, and turned out of the garage yard.
I
t felt strange after all those years, but straightforward enough.
H
e drove up past the sprawling Lehrter goods yards, back through the center of Moabit, and up Invalidenstrasse. The car was a bit shabby inside, but it handled well, and the engine sounded smooth enough.

He stopped by the side of the Humboldt canal basin and wormed his way under the chassis. There was a bit of rust, but not too much. No sign of leakages, and nothing seemed about to fall off. Brushing himself down, he walked around the vehicle. The engine compartment looked efficient enough. The tires would need replacing, but not immediately. The lights worked. It wasnt exactly an Austro-Daimler, but it would have to do.

He drove back to the garage and told Hunder hed take it. As he wrote out the check, he reminded himself how much hed be saving on tram and train tickets.

It was still early afternoon as he drove home, and the streets, with the exception of Potsdamerplatz, were relatively quiet. He parked in the courtyard, and borrowed a bucket, sponge, and brush from an excited Frau Heidegger. She watched from the step as he washed the outside and cleaned the inside, her face full of anticipation. A quick drive, he offered, and she needed no second bidding. He took them through Hallesches Tor and up to Viktoria Park, listening carefully for any sign that the engine was bothered by the gradient. There was none. I havent been up here for years, Frau Heidegger exclaimed, peering through the windshield at the Berlin panorama as they coasted back down the hill.

Effi was just as excited a couple of hours later. Her anger at his late arrival evaporated the moment she saw the car. Teach me to drive, she insisted.

Russell knew that both her father and ex-husband had refused to teach her, the first because he feared for his car, the second because he feared for his social reputation. Women were not encouraged to drive in the new Germany. Okay, he agreed, but not tonight, he added, as she made for the drivers seat.

It was a ten-minute drive to the Conways modern apartment block in Wilmersdorf, and the Hanomag looked somewhat overawed by the other cars parked outside. Dont worry, Effi said, patting its hood. We need a name, she told Russell. Something old and reliable. How about Hindenburg?

Hes dead, Russell objected.

I suppose so. How about Mother?

Mine isnt reliable.

Oh all right. Ill think about it.

They were the last to arrive. Phyllis Conway was still putting the children to bed, leaving Doug to dispense the drinks. He introduced Russell and Effi to the other three couples, two of whomthe Neumaiers and the Auerswere German. Hans Neumaier worked in banking, and his wife looked after their children. Rolf and Freya Auer owned an art gallery. Conways replacement, Martin Unsworth, and his wife Fay made up the third couple. Everyone present, Russell reckoned, either was approaching, was enjoying or had recently departed their thirties. Hans Neumaier was probably the oldest, Fay Unsworth the youngest.

Effi disappeared to read the children a bedtime story, leaving Russell and Doug Conway alone by the drinks table. I asked the Wiesners, Conway told him. I went out to see them. He shook his head. They were pleased to be asked, I think, but they wouldnt come. Dont want to risk drawing attention to themselves while theyre waiting for their visas, I suppose. They speak highly of you, by the way.

Is there nothing you can do to speed up their visas?

Nothing. Ive tried, believe me. Im beginning to think that someone in the system doesnt like them.

Why, for Gods sake?

I dont know. Ill keep trying, but. . . . He let the word hang. Oh, he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out two tickets. I was given these today. Brahms and something else, at the Philharmonie, tomorrow evening. Would you like them? We cant go.

Thanks. Effill be pleased.

Whats she doing now?
Barbarossa
has finished, hasnt it?

Yes. But youd better ask her about the next project.

Conway grinned. I will. Come on, wed better join the others.

The evening went well. The conversation flowed through dinner and beyond, almost wholly in German, the two Conways taking turns at providing translation for Fay Unsworth. The two German men were of a type: scions of upper middle class families who still prospered under the Nazis but who, in foreign company especially, were eager to demonstrate how embarrassed they were by their government. They and Freya Auer lapped up Effis account of the
Mother
storyline, bursting into ironic applause when she described the hospital bed denouement. Only Ute Neumaier looked uncomfortable. Among her fellow housewives in Grunewald she would probably give the story a very different slant.

Rolf Auer was encouraged to recount some news hed heard that afternoon. Five of Germanys most famous cabaret comediansWerner Finck, Peter Sachse, and the Three Rulandshad been expelled from the Reich Cultural Chamber by Goebbels. They wouldnt be able to work in Germany again.

When was this announced? Russell asked.

It hasnt been yet. Goebbels has a big piece in the
Beobachter
tomorrow morning. Its in there.

Last time I saw Finck at the Kabarett, Russell said, he announced that the old German fairytale section had been removed from the program, but that thered be a political lecture later.

Everyone laughed.

Itll be hard for any of them to get work elsewhere, Effi said. Their sort of comedys all about language.

Theyll have to go into hibernation until its all over, Phyllis said.

Like so much else, her husband agreed.

Where has all the modern art gone? Effi asked the Auers. Six years ago there must have thousands of modern paintings in Germanythe Blau Reiter group, the Expressionists before them, the Cubists. Where are they all?

A lot of them are boxed up in cellars, Rolf Auer admitted. A lot were taken abroad in the first year or so, but since then. . . . A lot were owned by Jews, and most of those have been sold, usually at knockdown prices. Mostly by people who think theyll make a good profit one day, sometimes by people who really care about them as art and want to preserve them for the future.

It sounded as if the Auers had a few in their cellar. Ive heard Hermanns building up his collection, Russell observed.

He has good taste, Auer conceded with only the faintest hint of sarcasm.

The conversation moved on to architecture and Speers plans for the new Berlin. Russell watched and listened. It was a civilized conversation, he thought. But the civilization concerned was treading water. There was an implied acceptance that things had slipped out of joint, that some sort of correction was needed, and that until that correction came along, and normal service was resumed, they were stuck in a state of suspended animation. The Conways, he saw, were only too glad to be out of it; America would be a paradise after this. The Unsworths didnt have a clue what they were getting into and, unless they were much more perceptive than they seemed, would draw all the wrong conclusions from gatherings like this one. But the three German coupleshe included himself and Effiwere just waiting for the world to move on, waiting at the Fuhrers pleasure.

Whatll happen to you if theres a war? Unsworth was asking him.

Ill be on the same train as you, I expect, Russell told him. Across the table, Effi made a face.

Thatll be hard, after living here for so long.

It will. I have a son here, too. Russell shrugged. But itll be that or internment.

In the way home, sitting in a line of traffic at the eastern end of the Kudamm, Effi suddenly turned to him and said: I dont want to lose you.

I dont want to lose you either.

She slipped an arm through his. How long do you think a war will last?

Ive no idea. Years, at least.

Maybe we should think about leaving. I know, she added quickly, that you dont want to leave Paul. But if theres a war and they lock you up youll be leaving him anyway. And we . . . oh I dont know. Its all so ridiculous.

Russell moved the car forward a few meters. Its something to think about. And it was. She was righthed lose Paul anyway. And he couldnt spend the rest of his life clinging to the boy. It wasnt fair to her. It probably wasnt fair to Paul.

I dont want to go either, but. . . .

I know. I think weve got a few months at least. He leaned over and kissed her, which drew an angry blow of the horn from the car behind them. And I cant let Paul run my whole life, he said, testing the thought out loud as he released the clutch.