Zoo Station (14 page)

Yes, thank you. Im told theres a good chance that the girls will be allowed to go, and Id like to . . . well, provide for them in England. You understand?

Russell nodded.

Very well. Thank you again. I mustnt take up any more learning time. He stepped to the adjoining door and opened it. Girls, come. He said it gruffly, but the smile he bestowed on them as they trooped in was almost too full of love. Russell remembered the faces on the Danzig station platform, the sound the woman had made. A different
Mother
, he thought.

The two girls fell on the
Daily Mail
.

You can keep it, apart from the back page he told them, and explained that he wanted the picture for his son.

Tell us about your son, Marthe said. In English, of course, she added.

He spent the next twenty minutes talking and answering questions about Paul. The girls were sympathetic to the philatelist, indulgent toward the football fan and lover of modern transport, dismissive of the toy soldier collector. They were particularly impressed by the tale of how, around the age of five, he had almost died of whooping cough. Telling the story, Russell felt almost anxious, as if he wasnt sure how it was going to end.

He turned the tables for the second half of the lesson, inviting them to talk about their own histories. He regretted this almost instantly, thinking that, given their situation, this was likely to prove upsetting for them. They didnt see it that way. It wasnt that they thought the familys current difficulties were temporary; it was more a matter of their knowing, even with all their problems, that they had more love in their lives than most other people.

It was one of the nicest hours he had ever spent, and walking back to the tram stop on Neue Konigstrasse he reminded himself to thank Doug Conway for the introduction the next time he saw him.

The opportunity soon presented itself. Back at the apartment, he found a message from Conway, asking him to call. He did so.

Conway didnt sound like his usual self. One of our people would like a word, he said.

What about? Russell asked warily.

I dont know. Im just the messenger.

Ah.

Could you come in, say, tomorrow morning, around eleven?

I suppose so.

Id like to see you, too. Were leaving, by the way. Ive been posted to Washington.

When? And why havent you told me?

Im telling you now. I only heard a couple of days ago. And were going in a couple of weeks.

Well Im sorry to hear that. From a purely selfish point of view, of course. Is it a promotion?

Sort of. Touch of the up, touch of the sideways. Anyway, were having a dinner for a few people on the thirdthats next Fridayand I hoped you and your lady friend could come.

Oh, Effi will be. . . . Working, he was going to say. But of course she wouldnt
Barbarossa
would be over, and
Mother
didnt start shooting until the thirteenth. Ill ask her, he said. Should be okay, though.

THE CAFE KRANZLER WAS
full of SS officers the next morning, their boots polished to such perfection that any leg movement sent flashes of reflected light from the chandeliers dancing around the walls. Russell hurried through his coffee and, with half an hour to burn, ambled down Unter den Linden to the Schloss. The Kaisers old home was still empty, but the papers that morning were full of his upcoming eightieth birthday party in Holland. Come back, all is forgiven, Russell murmured to himself.

After the Unter den Linden the British Embassy seemed an oasis of languor. The staff drifted to and fro, as if worried they might be caught speeding. Was this the new British plan? Russell wondered. Slow the drift to war by slowing the diplomats?

Doug Conway eventually appeared. One of our intelligence people wants to talk to you, he said quietly. Nothing formal, just a chat about things. Russell grunted his disbelief, and Conway had the grace to look embarrassed. Not my ideaIm just the messenger.

You said that yesterday.

Well, I am. Look, Ill take you up. Hes a nice enough chap. His names Trelawney-Smythe.

It would be, Russell thought. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.

Trelawney-Smythes office was a small room high at the back of the building, with a compensating view of the Brandenburg Gate. Conway introduced Russell and withdrew. Trelawney-Smythe, a tall dark-haired man in his thirties with a worried-looking face, ushered him to a seat.

Good of you to come, he began, rifling through papers on his overcrowded desk. Russell wondered if Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist gave private lessons in desk arrangement. Ah, Trelawney-Smythe said triumphantly, extracting a copy of
Pravda
from the mess. A handwritten sheet was attached with a paper clip.

My latest masterpiece, Russell murmured. Why was it, he wondered, that British officialdom always brought out the schoolboy in him? After reading one of the Saint stories Paul had asked him why the Saint was so fond of prodding Chief Inspector Teal in the stomach. Russell had been unable to offer a coherent explanation, but deep down he knew exactly why. He already wanted to prod Trelawney-Smythe in something.

The other man had unclipped the handwritten sheet from the newspaper and carefully stowed the paper clip away in its rightful place. This is a translation of your article, he said.

May I see it? Russell asked, holding out a hand.

Somewhat taken aback, Trelawney-Smythe handed it over.

Russell glanced through it. They had printed it more or less verbatim. He handed it back.

Mr. Russell, Im going to be completely frank with you, Trelawney-Smythe said, unconsciously echoing Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist.

Dont strain yourself, Russell thought.

You used to be a member of the British Communist Party, correct?

Yes. He wondered if Trelawney-Smythe and Kleist had ever met.

Then you know how the communists operate?

You think they all operate the same way?

I think the Soviets have certain well-practiced methods, yes.

Youre probably right.

Well, then. We dont think this will be the end of it. We think theyll ask for more and more.

More and more articles? And who is we?

Trelawney-Smythe smiled. Dont play the innocent. You know who we are. And you know Im not talking about your articles, amusing as they are. We think theyll be asking you for other information. The usual method is to keep upping the ante, until youre no longer in a position to refuse. Because theyll shop you to the Germans if you do.

As you said, I know how they operate. And its my lookout, isnt it?

Not completely. Do you see this? Trelawney-Smythe asked, indicating the words at the foot of the article, which identified the name, nationality, and credentials of the author.

Yes.

An Englishman currently living in Germany, Trelawney-Smythe read out, just to be sure.

Thats me.

Trelawney-Smythe tapped on the paper with an index finger. You are English, and your behavior will reflect on the rest of us. Particularly at a time like this.

A dont-rock-the-boat-for-Gods-sake sort of time?

Something like that. Relations between us and the Soviets are, shall we say, difficult at the moment. They dont trust us and we dont trust them. Everybodys looking for signals of intent. The smallest thinglike
Pravda
inviting you to write these articlescould mean something. Or nothing. They could be planning to use you as a channel to us or the Germans, for passing on information or disinformation. We dont know. I assume you dont know.

Im just doing my job.

All right. But how would you feel about providing us with advance copies of your articles. Just so we know whats coming.

Russell laughed. You too? He explained about his arrangement with the SD. Why not? he said. I might as well run off a few carbons for Mussolini and Daladier while Im at it. He put his hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to lift himself up. Anything else?

We would appreciate being told if this goes beyond a mere commercial arrangement. And obviously wed be interested in anything you learn which might be of use to your country.

Ive already learned one thing. The Soviets think the British and French are trying to cut them out. Look how long Hitler gave the ambassador at the opening last week. Look at the new trade deal talks. If you dont start treating the Soviets as potential allies, theyll do a deal with Hitler.

I think Londons aware of that.

You could have fooled me. But what do I know? He looked at his watch. I have a lunch date. He extended his hand across the desk. Ill bear what youve said in mind.

Enjoy your lunch.

Russell dropped in on Conway on his way out.

Still talking to me? the diplomat asked.

You, yes; the Empire, no.

Hes just doing his job.

I know. Look, thanks for the dinner invite. Ill let you know soon as I can. Russell paused at the door. And I will be sorry to see you go, he added.

IT WAS A FAST
five-minute walk to Russischer Hof on Georgenstrasse, where he and Thomas usually met for lunch. As he hurried east on Unter den Linden Russell replayed the conversation with Trelawney-Smythe in his mind. Rather to his surprise it had been refreshingly free of threats. If British intelligence wanted to, he imagined that they could make his life a lot more difficult. They could take away his passport, or just make renewal harder. They could probably make it harder for him to sell his work in England, his prime market. A word to a few knighthood-hungry editorsin fact a mere appeal to their patriotismand his London agent would be collecting rejections on his behalf. On the plus side, it was beginning to look as if every intelligence service in Europe was interested in employing him.

It was a raw day, the wind whipping in from the east, and Russell turned up his collar against it. A tram slid under the railway bridge, bell frantically ringing, as he turned off Friedrichstrasse and into Georgenstrasse. The Russisches Hotel was a nineteenth-century establishment once favored by Bismarck, and sometimes Russell wondered if they were still recycling the same food. The elaborate decor created a nice atmosphere, though, and the usual paucity of uniformed clientele was a definite bonus.

Russells ex-brother-in-law was seated at a window table, glass of Riesling in hand, looking dourly out at the street. The dark gray suit added to the sober impression, but that was Thomas. When theyd first met in the mid-20s Russell had thought him the epitome of the humor-less German. Once he had gotten to know him, however, he had realized that Thomas was anything but. Ilses brother had a sly, rather anarchic sense of humor, completely lacking in the cruelty which marked much popular German humor. If anything he was the epitome of the decent German, an endangered species if ever there was one.

The pot roast with cream sauce, red cabbage, and mashed potatoes seemed an ideal riposte to the weather, which was now blowing snow flurries past their window. Hows the business? Russell asked, as Thomas poured him a glass of wine.

Good. Weve got a lot of work, and exports are looking up. The new printers have made a huge difference. You know the Worlds Fair in New York this April? It looked for a moment as if we might have a stand there.

What happened?

It seems the organizers have decided to include a pavilion celebrating pre-Nazi German Art. And emigre art. If they do, the government will boycott the Fair.

Thats a shame.

Thomas gave him a wintry smile. Given the context, its hard to be that upset. And theres always the chance that the Ministry would have refused to let us go. Because of our employment policies.

Only one firm in Berlin employed more Jews than Schade Printing Works.

You dont have room for one more, I suppose? Russell asked, thinking of Albert Wiesner.

Not really. Who do you have in mind?

Russell explained the Wiesners situation.

Thomas looked pained. I have a waiting list of around two hundred already, he said. Most of them are relatives of people who already work there.

Russell thought of pressing him but decided not to. He could hear Albert in his head: One familys success is another familys failure. I understand, he said, and was about to change the subject when the waiter arrived with their meals.

Both men noticed that the portions seemed smaller than usual. Sign of the times, Thomas observed.

The roast tasted better than usual, though. Any chance of things getting better? Russell asked. Thomas had no more inside information than Russells other friends in Berlinand considerably less than manybut hed always had a remarkable knack for knowing which way the wind was blowing.

I dont know, was his answer. Ribbentrops off to Warsaw again. They seem to be trying. He shrugged. Well probably find out more on Monday.

That was the day of Hitlers annual speech to the Reichstag commemorating his own accession to the Chancellorship. Id forgotten about that, Russell admitted.

Youre probably the only person in Europe who has. I think the whole continents hanging on it. Will he keep the pressure on, demand more? Or will he take the pressure off? That would be the intelligent move. Act as if hes satisfied, even if hes only pausing for breath. But in the long run. . . . Its hard to see him stopping. Hes like a spinning coin. Once he stops spinning, hell fall flat.

Russell grunted. Nice.

They asked after each others better halves, both current and former.

Youre asking me? Thomas said when Russell enquired after Ilse. I havent see her for weeks. Last time we went over there, well. . . . He didnt continue.

You didnt have a row?

Oh no, nothing like that, Thomas said, as if rows were something that happened to other people. Which, in his case, they usually were. I just find Matthias so . . . oh, I dont know . . . complacent? Is that the right word for people who say they fear the worst but live their lives as if theres bound to be a happy ending?

It might be, Russell agreed. He realized he hadnt told Thomas about his trip to Cracow, or asked him to take Paul to the match on Sunday, and did so now.