Zoo Station (2 page)

I like my apartment block.

You can buy things for your son, your girlfriend. You can have your shoes mended.

I dont. . . .

The money is only an extra. You were with us once. . . .

A long long time ago.

Yes, I know. But you cared about your fellow human beings. I heard you talk. That doesnt change. And if
we
go under there will be nothing left.

A cynic might say theres not much to choose between you.

The cynic would be wrong, Shchepkin replied, exasperated and perhaps a little angry. We have spilled blood, yes. But reluctantly, and in hope of a better future. They enjoy it. Their idea of progress is a European slave-state.

I know.

One more thing. If money and politics dont persuade you, think of this. We will be grateful, and we have influence almost everywhere. And a man like you, in a situation like yours, is going to need influential friends.

No doubt about that.

Shchepkin was on his feet. Think about it, Mr. Russell, he said, drawing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placing it on the nightstand. All the details are in herehow many words, delivery dates, fees, and so on. If you decide to do the articles, write to our press attache in Berlin, telling him who you are, and that youve had the idea for them yourself. He will ask you to send him one in the post. The Gestapo will read it, and pass it on. You will then receive your first fee and suggestions for future stories. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentence will spell out the name of a city outside Germany which you can reach fairly easily. Prague, perhaps, or Cracow. You will spend the last weekend of the month in that city, and be sure to make your hotel reservation at least a week in advance. Once you are there, someone will contact you.

Ill think about it, Russell said, mostly to avoid further argument. He wanted to spend his weekends with Paul, and with Effi, his girlfriend, not the Shchepkins of this world.

The Russian nodded and let himself out. As if on cue, the Polish choir lapsed into silence.

RUSSELL WAS WOKEN BY
the scream of a locomotive whistle. Or at least, that was his first impression. Lying there awake all he could hear was a gathering swell of high-pitched voices. It sounded like a school playground full of terrified children.

He threw on some clothes and made his way downstairs. It was still dark, the street deserted, the tramlines hidden beneath a virginal sheet of snow. In the train station booking hall across the street a couple of would-be travelers were hunched in their seats, eyes averted, praying that they hadnt strayed into dangerous territory. Russell strode through the unmanned ticket barrier. There were trucks in the goods yard beyond the far platform, and a train stretched out past the station throat. People were gathered under the yellow lights, mostly families by the look of them, because there were lots of children. And there were men in uniform. Brownshirts.

A sudden shrill whistle from the locomotive produced an eerie echo from the milling crowd, as if all the children had shrieked at once.

Russell took the subway steps two at a time, half-expecting to find that the tunnel had been blocked off. It hadnt. On the far side, he emerged into a milling crowd of shouting, screaming people. He had already guessed what was happeningthis was a
kindertransport
, one of the trains hired to transport the ten thousand Jewish children that Britain had agreed to accept after
Kristallnacht
. The shriek had risen at the moment the guards started separating the children from their parents, and the two groups were now being shoved apart by snarling brownshirts. Parents were backing away, tears running down their cheeks, as their children were herded onto the train, some waving frantically, some almost reluctantly, as if they feared to recognize the separation.

Further up the platform a violent dispute was underway between an SA Truppfuhrer and a woman with a red cross on her sleeve. Both were screaming at the other, he in German, she in northern-accented English. The woman was beside herself with anger, almost spitting in the brownshirts eye, and it was obviously taking everything he had not to smash his fist into her face. A few feet away one of the mothers was being helped to her feet by another woman. Blood was streaming from her nose.

Russell strode up to the brownshirt and the Englishwoman and flashed his Foreign Ministry press accreditation, which at least gave the man a new outlet for his anger.

What the fuck are you doing here? the Truppfuhrer shouted. He had a depressingly porcine face, and the bulk to go with it.

Trying to help, Russell said calmly. I speak English.

Well then tell this English bitch to get back on the train with the kike brats where she belongs.

Russell turned to the woman, a petite brunette who couldnt have been much more than twenty-five. Hes not worth screaming at, he told her in English. And it wont do you any good. In fact, youll only make matters worse.

I . . . She seemed at a loss for words.

I know, Russell said. You cant believe people could behave like this. But this lot do. All the time.

As if to emphasize the point, the Truppfuhrer started shouting again. When she started shouting back he reached for her arm, and she kicked him in the shin. He backhanded her across the face with what seemed like enormous force, spinning her round and dumping her face-first on the snowy platform. She groaned and shook her head.

Russell put himself between them. Look, he said to the man, this will get you court-martialed if youre not careful. The Fuhrer doesnt want you giving the English this sort of a propaganda victory.

The British woman was groggily raising herself onto all fours. The stormtrooper took one last look at his victim, made a pah! noise of which any pantomime villain would have been proud, and strode away down the platform.

Russell helped her to her feet.

What did you say to him? she asked, gingerly feeling an already-swelling cheek.

I appealed to his better nature.

There must be someone. . . . she began.

There isnt, he assured her. The laws dont apply to Jews, or anyone who acts on their behalf. Just look after the children. They look like they need it.

I dont need you to tell me. . . .

I know you dont. Im just trying. . . .

She was looking past his shoulder. Hes coming back.

The Truppfuhrer had a Sturmfuhrer with him, a smaller man with round glasses and a chubby face. Out of uniformassuming they ever took them offhe put them down as a shopkeeper and minor civil servant. Danzigs finest.

Your papers, the Sturmfuhrer demanded.

Theyre in my hotel room.

What is your name?

John Russell.

You are English?

Im an English journalist. I live in the Reich, and I have full accreditation from the Ministry of Propaganda in Berlin.

We shall check that.

Of course.

And what are you doing here?

I came to see what was happening. As journalists do. I intervened in the argument between your colleague and this Red Cross worker because I thought his behavior was damaging the reputation of the Reich.

The Sturmfuhrer paused for thought, then turned to his subordinate. Im sure my colleague regrets any misunderstanding, he said meaningfully.

The Truppfuhrer looked at the woman. I apologize, he said woodenly.

He apologizes, Russell told her.

Tell him to go to hell, she said.

She accepts your apology, Russell told the two brownshirts.

Good. Now she must get back on the train, and you must come with us.

Russell sighed. You should get on the train, he told her. You wont get anywhere by protesting.

She took a deep breath. All right, she said, as if it was anything but. Thank you, she added, offering her hand.

Russell took it. Tell the press when you get back to civilization, he said, and good luck.

He watched her mount the steps and disappear into the train. The children were all aboard now; most had their faces pressed against the windows, frantically wiping their breath from the glass to get a last clear look at their parents. A few had managed to force back the sliding ventilators and wedge their faces in the narrow gap. Some were shouting, some pleading. Most were crying.

Russell tore his gaze from the windows just in time to see a small girl leap nimbly down from the train and race across the platform. The stormtrooper by the door spun to catch her, but slipped in the slush as he did so, and fell face-first onto the platform. As he struggled to his feet a boy of around ten rushed past him.

The little girls arms were tightly wrapped around her kneeling mothers neck. Esther, we have to get on the train, the boy said angrily, but daughter and mother were both crying too hard to notice him. The fathers anguished appeals to reasonRuth, we have to let her go; Esther, you must go with your brotherfell on equally deaf ears.

The stormtrooper, red-faced with anger, took a fistful of the girls long black hair and yanked. The shock tore her arms from her mothers neck, and he started dragging the girl across the slush-strewn platform to the train. The mother shrieked and went after them. He let go of the girl and crashed his rubber cosh across one side of the mothers face. She sank back, a rivulet of blood running onto her coat collar. As the stormtrooper went to hit the woman again, her husband grabbed for the cosh, but two other brownshirts wrestled him to the ground, and started raining down blows on his head. The boy picked up his whimpering sister and shepherded her back onto the train.

More stormtroopers came racing up, but they neednt have bothered. Like Russell, the watching parents were too stunned to protest, let alone intervene.

I dont want to go, a small voice said behind him.

He turned to find its owner. She was standing on a seatback, face twisted sideways in an open ventilator, brown eyes brimming with tears. She couldnt have been more than five.

Please, can you tell the policemen that I dont want to go? My name is Fraulein Gisela Kluger.

Russell walked across to the train, wondering what on earth he could say. Im afraid you have to make this trip, he said. Your mother and father think youll be safer in England.

But I dont want to, she said, a large tear sliding down either cheek.

I know, but. . . . Another whistle shrilled down the platform; a spasm of steam escaped from the locomotive. Im sorry, he said helplessly.

The train jerked into motion. A momentary panic flitted across her face, followed by a look that Russell would long rememberone that blended accusation, incomprehension, and the sort of grief that no fiveyear-old should have to bear.

As the train pulled away a tiny hand poked out through the window and waved.

Im sorry, Russell murmured.

Another hand grasped his arm. The Truppfuhrers. You, English. Come with us.

He was ushered down the platform in the Sturmfuhrers wake. Most of the mothers and fathers were still focussed on the disappearing train, their eyes clinging to the red taillight, the last flicker of family. They had sent their children away. To save their lives, they had turned them into orphans.

One woman, her eyes closed, was kneeling in the snow, a low keening noise rising up from inside her. The sound stayed with Russell as he was led out of the station. The sound of a heart caving in.

In the goods yard the Truppfuhrer pushed him toward a car. My hotels just across the road, Russell protested.

We will collect your papers, the Sturmfuhrer said.

As they bundled him into a car, it occurred to Russell that Shchepkins envelope was still sitting on his nightstand.

DANZIG WAS WAKING UP
as they drove back toward the city center, shopkeepers clearing the nights snow off their patches of sidewalk. Russell kept his eyes on where they were going, hoping to God it wasnt some SA barracks out of humanitys hearing range. As they pulled up outside an official police station on Hunde-Gasse he managed to suppress an audible sigh of relief.

The Truppfuhrer pulled him out of the car and pushed him violently toward the entrance doors. Russell slipped in the snow and fell up the steps, catching a shin on one of the edges. There was no time to check the wound, thoughthe Truppfuhrer was already propelling him forward.

Inside, a uniformed police officer was cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He looked up without much interest, sighed, and reached for the duty book. Name?

Russell told him. Im English, he added.

The man was not impressed. We all have to come from somewhere. Now empty your pockets.

Russell did as he was told. Whos in charge here? he asked. The police or the SA?

The policeman gave him a contemptuous look. Take a guess, he suggested.

Russell felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. I want to speak to the British Consulate, he said.

No need for that, the Truppfuhrer said behind him. Now whats your hotel name and room number? Armed with this information, he went back out through the doors. Russell had a glimpse of gray light in the eastern sky.

He tried pleading with the duty officer, and received a shrug for his pains. A younger policeman was summoned to take him downstairs, where two rows of cells lay on either side of a dimly lit corridor. They had brick walls and tiled floors, black up to waist level, white above. Only a splash of blood was needed to exhaust the Nazi palate.

Russell slumped to the floor in his cell, his back against the far wall. No need to feel frightened, he told himself. They wouldnt do any permanent damage to a foreign journalist.

They would if they thought he was a spy. What had Shchepkin put in the damn envelope? If Russells past experience with the NKVD was anything to go by, there was an institutional reluctance to spell anything out which verged on paranoia. And they wouldnt want to leave him with anything he might conceivably use against them.

All of which was good news.

But what language was the damn letter written in? If it was in Russian, or if rubles were mentioned, that would be enough for goons like the Truppfuhrer.