Zoo Station (9 page)

More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 meters, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. And my mother told me size didnt matter, one journalist lamented in English. I expect your father had a whopper, another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadnt damaged it.

The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitlers entrance.

We used to have arms races, Slaney observed. Now we have hall races. Hitler had this built because he was so impressed by the size of Mussolinis office. And the moment Benito sees this hell have to have one in Rome thats even bigger. And theyll both keep outbidding each other until the world runs out of marble.

I have a feeling theyre building arms too, Dick Normanton said wryly, his Yorkshire accent sounding almost surreal in this setting. He was one of the veteran English correspondents, much pampered by the Propaganda Ministry. This was hardly his fault: Normanton had an acute understanding of where Nazi Germany was headed, and often said as much in his reporting. Unfortunately for him, his London proprietor admired Hitler, and made sure that his editor edited accordingly.

If youre interested in a horror show, he told Russell, try the University on Wednesday. Streichers inaugurating a new Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda and giving a speech. There should be some good Mad Hatter material.

Sounds suitably gruesome, Russell agreed.

What does? McKinley asked, joining them.

Normanton explained reluctantly: McKinley was not noted for his love of irony.

Why would anyone want to listen to Streicher? the American asked after Normanton had drifted away. Its not as if hes going to say anything interesting, is it?

I guess not, Russell agreed diplomatically, and changed the subject. What do you make of the building? he asked.

McKinley sighed. Its gross. In every meaning of the word, he added, looking round.

Russell found this hard to disagree with; the new Chancellery was indeed gross. But it was also impressive, in a disturbing sort of way. It might be a monument to Hitlers lack of aesthetic imagination, but it was also proof of intention. This was not the sort of building you could ignore. It meant business.

It was Russells turn to sigh. How was your weekend? he asked McKinley.

Oh, fine. I caught up on some work, saw a movie. And I went dancing at one of those halls off the Alexanderplatz. With one of the secretaries at the Embassy. He smiled in reminiscence, and looked about sixteen years old. And I saw a couple of people for that story I told you about, he added quickly, as if hed caught himself slacking.

You didnt actually tell me anything about it.

Ah. I will. In time. In fact I may need your help with. . . .

He was drowned out by an eruption of applause. Right arms shot toward the ceiling, as if some celestial puppeteer had suddenly flicked a finger. His Nibs had arrived.

Russell dutifully lined up the Leica and squeezed off a couple of shots. The Fuhrer was not in uniform and looked, as usual, like an unlikely candidate for leadership of a master race. One arm was stuck at half-mast to acknowledge the welcome, the mouth set in a selfsatisfied smirk. The eyes slowly worked their way around the room, placid as a lizards. This man will kill us all, Russell thought.

A builders mate in the traditional top hat of the German artisan his name, the toady had told them, was Max Hoffmanpresented Hitler with the keys to his new home. Flashbulbs popped; hands clapped. The Fuhrer volunteered a few words. He was, he said, the same person he had always been, and wished to be nothing more. Which means hes learned absolutely nothing, Slaney whispered in Russells ear.

And that was that. Moving like a formation dancing team, Hitler and his ring of bodyguards began mingling with the guests in the privileged section of the hall, the ring working like a choosy Venus flytrap, admitting chosen ones to the Presence and spitting them out again. Much to the interest of the watching journalists, the Soviet Ambassador was given by far the longest audience.

Fancy a drink? Slaney asked Russell. Two of the other Americans, Bill Peyton and Hal Manning, were standing behind him. Were headed over to that bar on Behrenstrasse.

Suits me, Russell agreed. He looked around for McKinley, but the youngster had disappeared.

The sun was still shining, but the temperature had dropped. The bar was dark, warm, and blessed with several empty tables. A huge bears head loomed over the one they chose, half-hidden in the dense layer of smoke which hung from the ceiling. Slaney went off to buy the first round.

Its hard to believe that Hitler got started in places like this, Manning said, lighting a cigarette and offering them round. He was a tall, thin man in his late forties with greying hair and thick black eyebrows in a cadaverous face. Like Slaney he was a veteran foreign correspondent, having worked his way up through Asian capitals and more obscure European postings to the eminence of 1939 Berlin. Peyton was youngersomewhere in his mid-thirties, Russell guessedwith clipped blond hair and a boyish face. He worked full-time for a national weekly and sold stuff to the business monthlies on the side.

Russell found Peyton irritatingly sure of himself, but he had soft spots for both Manning and Slaney. If Americans remained ignorant about Nazi Germany, it wouldnt be their fault.

So how do we tell this one, boys? Slaney asked once the beers had been passed round. Just another grand building? Or megalomania run riot?

New Lair For Monster, Manning suggested.

I like it, Slaney said, wiping froth off his nose. Adolf was getting chummy with Astakhov, wasnt he?

Manning agreed. And Astakhov was lapping it up. I think Stalins given up on the Brits and the French.

Russell remembered what Shchepkin had said on the subject. You can hardly blame him after Munich, he said mildly.

True, but you can hardly blame Chamberlain and Daladier for not trusting Stalin, Peyton said.

Bastards all, Slaney summed up. I see Chamberlains on his way to see the Ducehe pronounced it
Dootch
in Rome. On some train called the Silver Bullet.

Russell laughed. Its the Golden Arrow.

Whatever. A week with Mussolini. I hope he likes parades.

Whats he going for? Peyton asked.

God knows. Youd think that by now someone in London would have noticed that the Duce is a man of moods. If hes feeling good hell promise the world, set their Limey minds at rest. If he isnt, hell try and scare the pants off em. Whichever he does, hell be doing the opposite before the weeks out.

Pity his German chum isnt a bit more mercurial, Manning offered. Once he gets his teeth into something, it stays bitten.

Or swallowed, in the Jews case, Russell added. Why the hell isnt Roosevelt doing more to help the Jews here?

Hes building up the Air Corps, Peyton said. There was another announcement over the weekend.

Yes, but that wont help the Jews.

He cant, Slaney said. Too much domestic opposition.

Russell wasnt convinced. The British are doing something. Nothing like enough, I know. But something.

Two reasons, Manning said. One, and most importantthey just dont get it back in Washington. Or out in the boonies. When Americans think about German Jews having a hard time, the first thing they think about is what American Jews have to put up withrestricted golf clubs, stuff like that. When they realize that Hitler doesnt play golf, they still find it hard to imagine anything worse than the way we treat our negroes. Sure, the negroes are condemned to segregation and poverty, but lynchings are pretty rare these days, and the vast majority get a life thats just about livable. Americans assume its the same for the German Jews.

What about the concentration camps? Russell asked.

They just think of them as German prisons. A bit harsh, maybe, but lots of Americans think our prisons should be harsher. He shrugged and took a gulp of beer.

The second reason? Russell prompted.

Oh, thats easy. A lot of Americans just dont like Jews. They think theyre getting their comeuppance. If they had any idea just how harsh that comeuppance some of them might,
might
, have second thoughts, but they dont.

I guess thats down to us.

Us and our editors, Slaney said. Weve told the story often enough. People just dont want to hear it. And if you keep on and on about it they just turn off.

Europes far away, Manning said.

And getting farther, Slaney added. Jesus, lets think about something pleasant for a change. He turned to Russell. John, Im organizing a poker night for next Tuesday. How about it?

THE FOURSOME EMERGED INTO
the daylight soon after 3:00, and went their separate waysPeyton to his mistress, Slaney and Manning to write their copy for the morning editions. Russell, walking south down Wilhelmstrasse, made the impulsive decision to drop in on Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist while he was still in the neighborhood. A small voice in his head protested that the
Sicherheitsdienst
was best encountered stone-cold sober, but it was promptly drowned out by a louder one insisting that there was nothing to be afraid of. The meeting was just a formality. So why not get it over with?

The fresh-faced blond receptionist seemed pleased enough to see him, gesturing him through to an anteroom with the sort of friendly smile that could soften up any man. Sunk into one of the leather chairs, Russell found himself staring at the latest product of the Propaganda Ministrys poster artists: Hitler complete with visionary stare and catchy sloganEIN VOLK, EIN REICH, EIN FUHRER. On the opposite wall a more colorful poster showed apple-cheeked youth frolicking in the Alps. That was the thing about these people, he thought: They never surprised you.

The minutes dragged by; the later pints of beer pressed ever-harder for release. He went back out to the receptionist, who pointed him in the direction of a toilet with the same sunny smile. The toilet was spotless and smelled as if it had just been hosed down with Alpine flowers. One of the cubicles was occupied, and Russell imagined Heydrich sitting with his breeches round his ankles, reading something Jewish.

Back in the ante-room he found company. A man in his sixties, smartly dressed. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. The man shifted nervously in his seat, causing the leather to squeak. Hitler stared at them both.

After about twenty minutes the sound of clicking heels seeped into the silence, and another young blonde appeared in the doorway. Herr John Russell? she enquired. Follow me, please.

They went down one long corridor, up some steps, down another corridor. All Russell could hear was the rhythmic click of the blondes shoes. No sounds escaped through the numerous doors they passed, no talk, no laughter, no typewriters. There was no sense that the building was empty, though, more a feeling of intense concentration, as if everyone was thinking fit to burst. Which, Russell realized, was absurd. Maybe the SD had a half-term break, like British schools.

Through the window on a second flight of stairs he caught a glimpse of a large lawn and the huge swastika flying over Hitlers new home. At the end of the next corridor the heels swung right through an open doorway.

Room 48 was not so much a room as a suite. The secretary led him through her high-ceilinged anteroom, opened the inner door, and ushered him in.

STURMBANNFUHRER GOTTFRIED KLEISTas the nameboard on the desk announcedlooked up, gestured him to the leather-bound seat on the near side of his leather-bound desk, and carried on writing. He was a stout man in denial, his black uniform just a little too tight for what it had to contain. He had a florid face, thinning hair and rather prominent red lips. He did have blue eyes, though, and his handwriting was exquisite. Russell watched the fountain pen scrape across the page, forming elegant whorls and loops from the dark green ink.

After what seemed like several minutes, Kleist carefully replaced the pen in its holder, almost daintily blotted his work and, after one last admiring look, moved it to the right hand side of his desk. From the left he picked up a folder, opened it, and raised his eyes to Russells. John Russell, he said. It wasnt a question.

You asked to see me, Russell said, with as much bonhomie as he could muster.

The Sturmbannfuhrer ran a hand through his hair, straightening a few rebellious wisps with his fingers. You are an English national.

With resident status in the Reich.

Yes, yes. I know. And a current journalistic accreditation.

Yes.

Could I see it please?

Russell removed it from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over.

Kleist noticed the invitation card. Ah, the opening, he said. A success, I assume. Were you impressed?

Very much so. The building is a credit to the Fuhrer.

Kleist looked sharply at Russell, as if doubtful of his sincerity.

So much modern architecture seems insubstantial, Russell added.

Indeed, Kleist agreed, handing back the press pass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in his seat, both hands grasping the edge of his desk. Now, it has come to our attention that the Soviet newspaper
Pravda
has commissioned you to write a series of articles about the Fatherland. He paused for a moment, as if daring Russell to ask how it had come to their attention. This was at your suggestion, I believe.

It was.

Why did you suggest these articles, Mr. Russell?

Russell shrugged. Several reasons. All freelance journalists are always looking to place stories with whoever will buy them. And it occurred to me that the Soviets might be interested in a fresh look at National Socialist Germany, one that concentrates on what the two societies have in common, rather than what divides them. What I