Potsdam Station (46 page)

‘It’s a bit late…’ Russell began. The man’s face was vaguely familiar. ‘But why not?’ he continued, as the singers next door reached for a new and louder chorus. ‘A journalist should never turn down a conversation,’ he murmured, mostly to himself, as he let the man in. ‘Take the chair,’ he suggested.

His visitor sat back and crossed one leg over the other, hitching up his trouser leg as he did so. ‘We have met before,’ he said. ‘A long time ago. My name is Shchepkin. Yevgeny Grigorovich Shchepkin. We…’

‘Yes,’ Russell interrupted, as the memory clicked into place. ‘The discussion group on journalism at the fifth Congress. The summer of ’24.’

Shchepkin nodded his acknowledgement. ‘I remember your contribu-tions,’ he said. ‘Full of passion,’ he added, his eyes circling the room and resting, for a few seconds, on his host’s dilapidated shoes.

Russell perched himself on the edge of the bed. ‘As you said – a long time ago.’ He and Ilse had met at that conference, and set in motion their ten-year cycle of marriage, parenthood, separation and divorce. Shchepkin’s hair had been black and wavy in 1924; now it was a close-cropped grey. They were both a little older than the century, Russell guessed, and Shchepkin was wearing pretty well, considering what he’d probably been through the last fifteen years. He had a handsome face of indeterminate nationality, with deep brown eyes above prominent slanting cheekbones, an aquiline nose and lips just the full side of perfect. He could have passed for a citizen of most European countries, and probably had.

The Russian completed his survey of the room. ‘This is a dreadful hotel,’ he said.

Russell laughed. ‘Is that what you wanted to talk about?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘So what are you here for?’

‘Ah.’ Shchepkin hitched his trouser leg again. ‘I am here to offer you work.’

Russell raised an eyebrow. ‘You? Who exactly do you represent?’

The Russian shrugged. ‘My country. The Writers’ Union. It doesn’t matter. You will be working for us. You know who we are.’

‘No,’ Russell said. ‘I mean, no I’m not interested. I…’

‘Don’t be so hasty,’ Shchepkin said. ‘Hear me out. We aren’t asking you to do anything which your German hosts could object to.’ The Russian allowed himself a smile. ‘Let me tell you exactly what we have in mind. We want a series of articles about positive aspects of the Nazi regime.’ He paused for a few seconds, waiting in vain for Russell to demand an explanation. ‘You are not German but you live in Berlin,’ he went on. ‘You once had a reputation as a journalist of the left, and though that reputation has, shall we say, faded, no one could accuse you of being an apologist for the Nazis…’

‘But you want me to be just that.’

‘No, no. We want positive aspects, not a positive picture overall. That would not be believable.’

Russell was curious in spite of himself. Or because of the
Goldwassers
. ‘Do you just need my name on these articles?’ he asked. ‘Or do you want me to write them as well?’

‘Oh, we want you to write them. We like your style – all that irony.’

Russell shook his head – Stalin and irony didn’t seem like much of a match.

Shchepkin misread the gesture. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘let me put all my cards on the table.’

Russell grinned.

Shchepkin offered a wry smile in return. ‘Well, most of them anyway. Look, we are aware of your situation. You have a German son and a German lady-friend, and you want to stay in Germany if you possibly can. Of course if a war breaks out you will have to leave, or else they will intern you. But until that moment comes – and maybe it won’t – miracles do happen – until it does you want to earn your living as a journalist without upsetting your hosts. What better way than this? You write nice things about the Nazis – not too nice, of course, the articles have to be credible… but you stress their good side.’

‘Does shit have a good side?’ Russell wondered out loud.

‘Come, come,’ Shchepkin insisted, ‘you know better than that. Unemployment eliminated, a renewed sense of community, healthy children, cruises for workers, cars for the people…’

‘You should work for Joe Goebbels.’

Shchepkin gave him a mock-reproachful look.

‘Okay,’ Russell said, ‘I take your point. Let me ask you a question. There’s only one reason you’d want that sort of article – you’re softening up your own people for some sort of deal with the devil. Right?’

Shchepkin flexed his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.

‘Why?’

The Russian grunted. ‘Why deal with the devil? I don’t know what the leadership is thinking. But I could make an educated guess, and so could you.’

Russell could. ‘The western powers are trying to push Hitler east, so Stalin has to push him west? Are we talking about a non-aggression pact, or something more?’

Shchepkin looked almost affronted. ‘What more could there be? Any deal with that man can only be temporary. We know what he is.’

Russell nodded. It made sense. He closed his eyes, as if it were possible to blank out the approaching calamity. On the other side of the opposite wall, his musical neighbours were intoning one of those Polish river songs which could reduce a statue to tears. Through the wall behind him silence had fallen, but his bed was still quivering like a tuning fork.

‘We’d also like some information,’ Shchepkin was saying, almost apologetically. ‘Nothing military,’ he added quickly, seeing the look on Russell’s face. ‘No armament statistics or those naval plans that Sherlock Holmes is always being asked to recover. Nothing of that sort. We just want a better idea of what ordinary Germans are thinking. How they are taking the changes in working conditions, how they are likely to react if war comes – that sort of thing. We don’t want any secrets, just your opinions. And nothing on paper. You can deliver them in person, on a monthly basis.’

Russell looked sceptical.

Shchepkin ploughed on. ‘You will be well paid – very well. In any currency, any bank, any country, that you choose. You can move into a better rooming house…’

‘I like my rooming house.’

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

‘I don’t…’

‘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 doesn’t change. And if we go under there will be nothing left.’

‘A cynic might say there’s not much to choose between you.’

‘The cynic would be wrong,’ Shchepkin replied, exasperated and perhaps a little angry. ‘We have spilt blood, yes. But reluctantly, and in faith 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 don’t 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 night-stand. ‘All the details are in here – how many words, delivery dates, fees, and so on. If you decide to do the articles, write to our press attaché in Berlin, telling him who you are, and that you’ve 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.’

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

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

PRAISE
FOR
DAVID
DOWNING

‘Stands with Alan Furst for authentic detail and atmosphere’
Donald James, author of
Monstrum

‘Think Robert Harris and
Fatherland
mixed with a dash of
Le Carré’
Sue Baker,
Publishing News

‘A wonderfully drawn spy novel … A very auspicious début,
with more to come’
The Booksel er
on
Zoo Station

‘Excellent and evocative … Downing’s strength is his
fleshing out of the tense and often dangerous nature of
everyday life in a totalitarian state’
The Times
on
Silesian Station

‘Exciting and frightening all at once … It’s got everything
going for it’
Julie Walters

‘One of the brightest lights in the shadowy world of
historical spy fiction’
Birmingham Post

About the Author

David Downing is the author of several works of fiction and non-fiction. His first novel in the ‘John Russell and Effi Koenen’ series,
Zoo Station
, was published by Old Street in 2007, followed by
Silesian Station
in 2008 and
Stettin Station
in 2009.
Potsdam Station
is the fourth in the series. He lives in Surrey with his wife and two cats.

Copyright

First published in 2010
by Old Street Publishing Ltd
Yowlestone House, Puddington, Tiverton, Devon EX16 8LN, United Kingdom

All rights reserved
© David Downing, 2010

The right of David Downing to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 978–1–906964–51–1