Silesian Station (2008) (28 page)

On their way home Paul announced that there was no Jungvolk meeting in three weeks' time - could they go camping that weekend?

'Leave Saturday morning and come back Sunday? I don't see why not. Has your mother agreed?'

'Not yet, but she will. I thought about asking Effi to come as well, but she doesn't seem the camping sort, really.'

'No. Just the two of us will be better, I think.'

'I think so.'

'Where do you want to go? Camping, I mean?' Russell felt absurdly pleased that his son wanted to go camping with him.

'The Harz Mountains?'

'The Harz Mountains it is.'

The sun finally broke through as they reached the house in Grunewald. Paul insisted on asking his mother about the camping while Russell was there, and Ilse agreed readily enough. He casually told her about his visit to Scheffler's tomb in Breslau, and, rather to his surprise, saw a softness in her eyes which he hadn't seen for years. Her husband Matthias asked Russell in for a drink but he declined, claiming, truly enough, that he was late for work.

Half an hour later he was parked outside the American Embassy. He sat in the front seat for a while, examining the wide boulevard through windscreen and mirrors, but no one seemed to be loitering with intent to spy. And what if they were? he asked himself. The Germans had all but ordered him to knock on the enemy's door.

He took the SD's envelope from the passenger seat, got out, and walked swiftly down the pavement to the Soviet Embassy. The letter-box was small, as if the Soviets were fearful of receiving too much information, and he had to force the envelope through.

A few minutes later he was joining Slaney in the Adlon Bar.

'I see you stirred up some trouble in Silesia,' was the American's first comment, his gaze fixed on Russell's bruise.

'I couldn't find any trouble,' Russell replied. He told Slaney about his search for alleged victims of Blechowka.

'There's been another imaginary incident, then,' the American said. 'It's in there,' he said, indicating the
Beobachter
which Russell had been carrying round with him all day. 'Hand it over.' He leafed through the pages, found what he wanted, and passed it back. 'Top right.'

The article was heavy on indignation, light on facts. The Polish police in Katowice - or Kattowitz as the
Beobachter
insisted on calling it - had 'frightfully mistreated eighteen members of the German minority, beating them with rubber truncheons and twisting their limbs.' The officers had been acting on 'direct orders from Warsaw' and 'indirect orders from England.'

Russell laughed. 'I can just see it,' he said. 'Chamberlain and Halifax plotting in the Cabinet Room. "Why don't we get the Polish police in Kattowitz to twist the limbs of a few Germans?" God, I don't suppose either of them has even heard of Kattowitz.'

'It's the "eighteen" I like,' Slaney said. 'You can just imagine them trying to decide what number of victims the story can bear before it becomes completely unbelievable.'

'So there's no real news?'

'Nothing to get excited about.'

'Has Chamberlain's team reached Moscow yet?'

'Yesterday. Their ship docked in Leningrad just before midnight on Wednesday. The galley staff were all Indian, so the diplomats had nine days of curries for lunch and dinner - I dread to think what the atmosphere was like. Anyway, they had a day's sightseeing on Thursday, took the overnight Red Arrow, and presumably spent most of Friday recovering. The talks were supposed to start today.'

'No word yet?'

'No. And there won't be anything positive. You know what'll happen next. The Brits and French will ask the Russians to join them in guaranteeing Poland, and the Russkis will say, "Fine, but how we can get at the Germans if the Poles won't let our troops into their country?" The Brits and French will try to pretend there isn't a problem, but everyone knows the Poles would never agree to a single Russian soldier on their blessed soil, let alone the Red Army. So the whole thing's dead in the water.'

'Probably,' Russell said. He realized he was still clinging, like most Europeans, to the hope that enough opposition would force Hitler to back off .

'The real point,' Slaney continued relentlessly, 'is that Stalin's got absolutely nothing to gain from signing up. If Hitler attacks Poland, and the British and French honour their guarantee, then Stalin can join the fun whenever he wants to, or just sit back and let the Western powers tear each other to pieces. And if the Limeys and Frogs leave the Poles in the lurch, then Stalin can thank his lucky stars he didn't sign up, because he would have found he was fighting Hitler all on his own.'

'How come you're so wise, Daddy?'

'Beer must be good for the brain.'

Russell grinned at him. 'Fancy getting some food? I haven't eaten since breakfast.'

'No thanks. I had a late lunch.'

Russell stopped off at the reception desk on his way to the restaurant. Like most of Berlin's foreign correspondents he used the Adlon as a second business address, and there were two items waiting for him - a wire from Cummins and a plain envelope with his name on it.

He opened the latter after ordering his meal. It contained everything he had suggested to Wilhelm Isendahl - the group's latest leaflet, a covering letter, and a typed article of around a thousand words. 'Father of Liars!' the leaflet proclaimed, and proved its point with a string of extracts from Hitler's speeches. The article looked, at first glance, like a serious expose of Nazi economic policies, but an Adlon restaurant heaving with Nazi uniforms didn't seem the place to read it.

He turned to Cummins' wire, which was short and depressingly to the point: POGROM BRATISLAVA AUGUST 11 STOP FIRST OUTSIDE GERMANY STOP SUGGEST INVESTIGATION SOONEST CUMMINS.

'I'll be back in a minute,' he told the waiter, who had just arrived with his wine. Making sure to take Isendahl's envelope with him, he walked back across to the bar. 'What do you know about a pogrom in Bratislava?' he asked Slaney.

'Nothing. Has there been one?'

'Apparently there was one yesterday.' He showed Slaney the wire.

'I'm glad my paper has a Central Europe correspondent,' he said. 'Bratislava's not my idea of a good time.'

It wasn't Russell's either, but he saw Cummins' point. A pogrom in Slovakia was like a secondary outbreak of plague, a sign that the disease was spreading, and couldn't be contained. Back in the restaurant he sipped at the glass of Mosel, wondering how the hell he was supposed to get there. The quickest way by train was via Prague, and that would take at least twelve hours. Worse still, he realized, his permit for the Protectorate had run out, and the chances of getting another before Monday morning were zero. He would have to go round the Protectorate in a bloody great circle - down to Nuremberg and Munich and then across to Vienna - and that would take at least a day. The blood would be dry by the time he got there.

He rushed his meal in the hope that Thomas Cook would still be open, but the frontage on Unter den Linden was firmly shut up. He drove on down to Anhalter Station, where trains left for the South; there was one to Leipzig at ten o'clock, with only a two hour wait for the connection to Nuremberg. He would be there by six-thirty, in Munich by eleven. The trains to Vienna were slow on Sundays, but he should arrive before nightfall.

Russell decided to think about it, and ordered a coffee at one of the con-course cafes. The arrivals board caught his eye, a litany of long delays and cancellations. The Wehrmacht manoeuvres were still wreaking havoc with the schedules.

He could fly, he suddenly realized. At least to Vienna, if not Bratislava. He drained his coffee and set out for Tempelhof in the gathering dusk. There would be no more flights that day, but someone might still be around.

The Lufthansa information desk was closing as he arrived, but the young man behind it seemed in no hurry to get home. There were no flights to Bratislava, he told Russell, and none to Vienna on Sundays. There were, however, flights on every other morning, and they left at nine. The price seemed astronomical, but with any luck the
Tribune
would pay it. If they didn't, too bad. An extra day with Effi was worth it.

He asked how long the flight took, and was told two and a half hours. This was progress, he thought. Getting from one atrocity to another had never been easier.

'So what do we do,' Effi asked, 'just knock on his door and ask if he's holding any girls prisoner?'

They were sitting in the Hanomag, about fifty metres down from the apartment block on Dragoner-Strasse. The street had a Sunday quietness about it, just a few smartly-dressed couples walking towards the spire in the distance, presumably intent on attending a late morning service.

'We wait,' Russell said. He was still recovering from Effi's performance at the wheel on the drive over.

'For how long?'

He smiled at her.

'Patience is not one of my strong suits,' she admitted.

'I'd never have guessed.'

'I...' she began, just as the nose of the Mercedes peered out from between the buildings.

'Look at me,' Russell said, as it turned towards them. 'As if we're talking.'

The Mercedes drove past on the other side of the road, and its driver cast a cursory glance in their direction. There was nothing suspicious or interrogative in the look, but Russell was left with a fleeting impression of cold purpose.

'Shouldn't we be following him?' Effi said, hand on the ignition key.

'No. He'd see us. And now we know he's out, we can go and question the portierfrau. Or I can,' he corrected himself.

'Why you? I can charm people.'

'I know you can. And if she's a movie fan - which, in my experience, ninety-nine per cent of portierfrauen are - she'll recognize you, and our anonymity will be shot to shreds.'

'Oh, all right. But what are you going to say?'

'I don't know yet.'

He crossed the street to the front entrance. The front door responded to his push, and a sign above the stairway to the basement told him where to find the portierfrau. He walked down the narrow stairs and knocked on a door with attractive stained glass windows. A woman of about sixty pulled it open, a small schnauzer dancing happily at her feet. Beethoven was playing in the back-ground, and the passage behind her was full of expensive-looking objets d'art.

She shooed the dog back in and pulled the door shut behind her.

'Good morning,' Russell said with a smile. 'I'm sorry to disturb you on a Sunday morning, but the local garage have told me that one of the tenants here owns a Mercedes Cabriolet, and that he might consider selling it. I'm wondering if you can tell me which apartment he occupies.'

'That would be Herr Drehsen in Number 5. But I'm afraid he's just gone out. I heard the automobile leave not ten minutes ago.'

Russell looked suitably distressed. 'That is a pity. I'm interested in buying a Cabriolet for my mother to use,' he explained, 'and I was hoping to ask the owner - Herr Drehsen, you say? - if he really was interested in selling it. I don't suppose that any other members of his family are likely to be at home?'

'His family? Herr Drehsen lives alone.'

'Excuse me for asking, but do you know him well?'

'Not well, no. I do his cleaning for him once a week, but Herr Drehsen is one of those men who keeps himself to himself.' She seemed somewhat relieved by the thought.

'He hasn't mentioned the idea of selling his car to you?'

'He has not.'

'Well, thank you very much, Frau...'

'Frau Jenigebn.'

'Thank you. I may return on another day, but I have others cars to look at this afternoon, and it's possible that one of those may meet my needs.'

'Can I pass your name on to Herr Drehsen?'

'Of course. Bloch. Martin Bloch.'

Russell walked back up the stairs and across the street.

'Well?' Effi demanded.

'His name's Drehsen. The portierfrau cleans for him, so he can't be keeping any girls in his apartment. And I'd be surprised if he brings any women here. She's the sort who would disapprove, and she gave no hint of it. And his car's usually parked outside her back window.'

'What did you tell her?'

'That I thought his Mercedes might be for sale. It was the best I could think of.'

'Clever.'

'That's me. So, this is where he comes when he fails to pick a girl up. We need to know where he goes when he succeeds.'

'We need to see him pick one up.'

'We do. Presumably he'll try again on Friday.'

'We don't know he only goes on Fridays,' Effi protested.

'All three sightings,' Russell reminded her.

She sighed. 'It seems a long time to wait if Miriam's still in danger.'

'If she's still in danger. It's been six weeks now.'

'But this might be the week that matters.'

Russell looked at her. 'What else can we do? If we start following him everywhere he's bound to spot us, and when the right time comes we need him not to recognize this car. We know there's no point in involving the police. And I'm off to Bratislava tomorrow for God knows how many days.'

'You'll be back by Friday though?'

'I hope so.'

He left Effi half-asleep in bed the following morning, and drove across town to leave the Hanomag at Siggi's mercy in the Neuenburger Strasse courtyard. A tram from Hallesches Tor got him to Tempelhof Field, where he posted Isendahl's envelope to himself at the Potsdam poste restante. He had several ideas for getting article and leaflet out of the country, but carrying them across the border between Vienna and Bratislava was not one of them.

The aeroplane looked similar to the one which had carried him, Zarah and the children to London earlier that year, but Paul was not around to confirm the name and number, or to volunteer a raft of technical specifications. There seemed more seats than before, and the air hostess, busy dispensing twists of cotton wool to his fellow-passengers, was noticeably prettier.

The aeroplane took off on time, rising over Wilmersdorf and Grunewald before veering round to the south. The pilot straightened her out at about two thousand metres, and the parched Saxon fields spread out beneath them. The sky was clear in all directions, and as they passed over Dresden the peaks of the Erzgebirge were clearly visible up ahead. Around half-past ten Prague appeared to their right, nestling in the silver bend of the Vltava. It looked serene and peaceful, as most places did from a kilometre up. Another hour and Vienna was visible across the wider ribbon of the Danube. As their plane taxied to a halt, the clock on the single storey aerodrome building read exactly eleven-thirty.