Zoo Station (7 page)

The
Jungvolk
appeared soon after one, buttoning their overcoats over their uniforms as they walked to the gate. Paul half-ran to greet him, a big smile on his face.

So where shall we go today? Russell asked.

The Funkturm.

Again? They had visited Berlins radio tower at least half a dozen times in 1938.

I like it there.

Okay. Lets get a tram then. Do you want me to carry that? he asked, indicating the large book his son was holding.

Well take turns, Paul decided.

What is it? Russell asked.

Its the yearbook, Paul said, holding it out.

The Hitler Youth Yearbook, Russell realized, as he skimmed through the pages. There were 500 of them. So what did you do today?

The same as usual to begin with. Roll-call and gymnastics and then the history lessonthat was all about Germania and the Romans and how most history people get it wrong about them. They think the Romans were civilized and the Germans were barbarians, but in fact it was the other way roundthe Romans got mixed up with other races and got soft and lazy and forgot how to fight but the Germans stayed German and that made them strong. They reached the tram stop just as a tram squealed to a halt. And after the history lesson, Paul went on, once they were in their seats, we did some work on the map wallremember?were doing a whole wall of maps of Germany from the beginning to now. Its beginning to look really good. He looked out the window. Theres a shop down here that sells model soldiers, and theyve got the new set of dead soldiers. Someone at school brought them in. Theyre really real.

They would be, Russell thought. Death and toys, the German specialties.

If theyd come out before Christmas, Id have them now, Paul said wistfully.

They reached Halensee Station and climbed down the steps to the Ringbahn platform. And then we had a talk from this old man, Paul said, as they watched an electric train pull away from the opposite platform and accelerate down the cutting. Quite old, anyway. He was much more than forty. He came to talk about the last war and what it was like. He said there werent many aeroplanes or tanks, and there was lots of hand-to-hand fighting. Is that true?

There was some. Depends what he meant by lots.

I think he meant it was happening all the time. Paul looked up at Russell. I didnt believe a lot of the things he said. I mean, he said that the best thing a soldier could do was to die for his country. And one of the boys in the back asked him if he was sorry that he hadnt died, and the man didnt reply. The boy was told to report to the leaders room after the talk, and he looked pretty sick when he came out.

Did they give him a whacking?

No, I think they just shouted at him. He wasnt trying to be cleverhes just a bit stupid.

Their train pulled in, and Paul spent the single stop ride staring out of the window at the skeletal Funkturm rising out of the tangle of railways. Finished in 1926, it looked like a smaller version of the Eiffel Tower, which probably galled the Nazis to no end. The elevators going up, Paul said, and they watched it climb toward the viewing platform 126 meters above the ground.

Fifteen minutes later they were waiting at the bottom for their own ride. One lift carried them to the restaurant level, 55 meters up, another to the circular walkway with its panoramic view of the city. The viewing platform was crowded, children lining up to use the coin-operated binoculars. Russell and his son worked their way slowly round, gazing out beyond the borders of the city at the forests and lakes to the southwest, the plains to the north and east. The Olympic Stadium loomed close by to the west, and Berlins two other high buildingsthe office tower of the Borsig locomotive works and the futuristic Shellhausboth seemed closer than usual in the clear air. As tradition demanded, once Paul got his hands on the binoculars he turned them toward the northern suburb of Gesundbrunnen, where Herthas flag was fluttering above the roof of the Plumpes solitary grandstand. Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC! he chanted underneath his breath.

In the restaurant below they both ordered macaroni, ham, and cheesewashed down, in Pauls case, with a bottle of Coca Cola.

Would you like to see New York? Russell asked, following a thread of thought that had begun on the viewing platform.

Oh yes, Paul said. It must be fantastic. The Empire State Building is more than three times as high as this, and it has a viewing platform right near the top.

We could stay with your grandmother.

When?

A few years yet. When you finish school, maybe.

Pauls face fell. Therell be a war before then.

Who says so?

Paul looked at him with disbelief. Everybody does.

Sometimes everybodys wrong.

Yes, but. . . . He blew into his straw, making the Coke bubble and fizz. Dad, he began, and stopped.

What?

When you were in the war, did you want to die for England?

No, I didnt. Russell was suddenly conscious of the people at the tables nearby. This was not a conversation to have in public.

Did you want to fight at all?

Lets go back up top, Russell suggested.

Okay, Paul agreed, but only after hed given Russell one of those looks which suggested he should try harder at being a normal father.

They took the elevator once more, and found an empty stretch of rail on the less-popular side, looking away from the city. Down to their left an S-bahn train was pulling out of the Olympic Stadium station.

I didnt want to fight, Russell began, after pausing to marshal his thoughts. I didnt volunteerI was conscripted. I could have refused, and probably gone to prison instead, but I wasnt certain enough about my feelings to do that. I thought maybe I was just afraid, and that I was hiding behind my opinions. But once I got to the trenches it was different. There were a few idiots who still believed in death and glory, but most of us knew that wed been conned. All the governments were telling their soldiers that they had God and right on their side, and that dying for their country was the least they could do, but . . . well, think about itwhat does it mean, dying for your country? What exactly is your country? The buildings and the grass and the trees? The people? The way of life? People say you should love your country and be proud of it, and there are usually things to love and be proud of. But there are usually things to dislike as well, and every country has things to be ashamed of. So what does dying for your country achieve? Nothing, as far as I could see. Living for your country, you get the chance to make it better. He looked at his son, whose expression was almost fierce.

Our leader says that people who dont want to fight are cowards.

I expect some of them are. But . . . you remember the Boer War in South Africa, between the English and the Boers? Well, the Indian nationalist leader Gandhi, he was a leader of the Indians in South Africa then, and he refused to fight. Instead he organized medical teams which helped the wounded on the battlefield. He and his people were always in the thick of the action, and lots of them were killed. They wouldnt fight, but they were about as far from cowards as you can get.

Paul looked thoughtful.

But I wouldnt say anything like that at a
Jungvolk
meeting, Russell went on, suddenly conscious of the yearbook he was carrying. Youd just get yourself in trouble. Think about things, and decide what you think is right, but keep it to yourself, or the family at least. These are dangerous times were living in, and a lot of people are frightened of people who dont think like they do. And frightened people tend to lash out.

But if you know somethings wrong, isnt it cowardly to just keep quiet?

This was what Russell was afraid of. How could you protect children from the general idiocy without putting them at risk? It can be, he said carefully. But theres not much point picking a fight if you know youre bound to lose. Better to wait until you have some chance of winning. The important thing is not to lose sight of what is right and what is wrong. You may not be able to do anything about it at the time, but nothing lasts forever. Youll get a chance eventually.

Paul gave him a grown-up look, as if he knew full well that Russell was talking as much about himself as his son.

WITH TIME TO BURN,
Russell took the long tram ride back down Kudamm, spent a couple of hours over dinner in a bar, and then went in search of a movie to watch. The new U-boat drama was showing at the Alhambra, a Zara Leander weepie at the Ufa Palast, and an American Western at the Universum. He chose the latter and reached his seat just as the weekly newsreel was getting started. A rather beautiful piece on Christmas markets in the Rhineland was followed by lots of thunderous marching and a German volleyball triumph in Romania. Suitably uplifted, the audience noisily enjoyed the Western, which almost made up in spectacle what it lacked in every other department.

Effis audience had gone home by the time he reached the theater on Nurnbergstrasse, and he only had to wait a few minutes for her to emerge from the dressing rooms. She had forgotten to eat anything between the matinee and evening shows, and was starving. They walked to a new bar on the Kudamm which one of the new Valkyries had told her served the most incredible omelettes.

They were indeed incredible, but the male clientele, most of whom seemed to be in uniform, left a lot to be desired. Four SS men took a neighboring table soon after their food arrived, and grew increasingly vocal with each round of schnapps. Russell could almost feel their need for a target take shape.

Effi was telling him about Zarahs latest neurosisher sister was increasingly worried that her infant son was a slow learnerwhen the first comments were directed at their table. One of the SS men had noticed Effis Jewish looks and loudly remarked on the fact to his companions. He was only about twenty, Russell thought, and when he succeeded in catching the young mans eye, he had the brief satisfaction of seeing a hint of shame in the way the man quickly looked away.

By this time Effi was rifling through her purse. Finding what she was looking for, and ignoring him, she stood up, advanced on the SS table, and held the
fragebogen
up to them, rather in the manner of a school-teacher lecturing a bunch of particularly obtuse children. See this, you morons, she said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Aryan descent, all the way back to Luthers time. Satisfied?

The manager was already at her shoulder. Fraulein, please. . . . he began.

I want these drunken pigs thrown out, she told him.

The oldest of the SS men was also on his feet. I would advise you to be careful, fraulein, he said. You may not be a Jew, but that doesnt give you the right to insult members of the Fuhrers bodyguard.

Effi ignored him. Are you going to throw these pigs out? she asked the manager.

He looked mortified. I. . . .

Very well. You wont get any more business from me. Or any of my friends. I hope, she concluded with one last contemptuous glance at the SS, that you can make a living selling swill to these pigs.

She headed for the door, as Russell, half-amused and half-fearful, counted out a few marks for their meal and listened to the SS men argue about whether to arrest her. When one of them took a step toward the door he blocked the way. You did call her a Jew, he said mildly, looking straight at the oldest man. Surely you can understand how upsetting that might be. She meant no disrespect.

The man gave him a slight bow of the head. She would do well to control her anger a little better, he said coldly.

She would, Russell agreed. Have a good evening, he added, and turned toward the door.

Outside he found Effi shaking with laughter, though whether from humor or hysteria he wasnt quite sure. He put an arm around her shoulder and waited for the shaking to stop. Lets go home.

Lets, she agreed.

They crossed the busy avenue and headed up one of the side streets.

Sometimes I wish I was a Jew, she said. If the Nazis hate them that much, they must be real human beings.

Russell grunted his acquiescence. I heard a joke the other day, he said. Hitler goes rowing on the Wannsee, but hes not very good at it, and manages to overturn the boat. A boy in a passing boat manages to haul him out and save him from drowning. Hitler, as you can imagine, is overcome with gratitude and promises the boy whatever he wants. The boy thinks for a moment, and asks for a state funeral. Hitler says, Youre a bit young for that, arent you? The boy says, Oh, mein Fuhrer, when I tell my dad Ive saved you from drowning hes going to kill me!

Effi started laughing again, and he did too. For what seemed like minutes they stood on the sidewalk, embracing and shaking with mirth.

NEXT AFTERNOON THOMAS AND JOACHIM
were waiting in the usual place, sitting on a low wall with cartons of half-consumed frankfurters and
kartoffelsalad
between them. Russell bought the same for himself and Paul.

Once inside the Plumpe they headed for their usual spot, opposite the edge of the penalty area, halfway up the terrace on the western side. As their two sons read each others magazines, Russell and Thomas sat themselves down on the concrete step and chatted. Hows business? Russell asked.

Its good, Thomas said, unbuttoning his overcoat. Hed been running the family paper business since his and Ilses father had died a few years earlier. Its getting harder to find experienced staff, but other than that. . . . He shrugged. Theres no lack of orders. How about you?

Not too bad. Ive got the opening of the new Chancellery tomorrow, and there should be a decent piece in thatthe Americans like that sort of thing.

Well thats good. How about Danzig? Did you get anything there?

Not really. Russell explained about the stamp wars.

Thomas rolled his eyes in frustration. Like children, he muttered. Speaking of which, Joachims been called up for his
arbeitsdienst.

When?

The beginning of March.

Russell looked up at Joachim, engrossed in his magazine. Ah, he said, glad that Paul was still six years away from the year of drilling, draining swamps, and digging roads which the Nazis imposed on all seventeen-year-old boys. How does he feel about it?