Silesian Station (2008) (3 page)

'My name is John Russell, and I have an appointment with a Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel,' Russell told him.

'For what time?'

'I was asked to come here as soon as I reached Berlin.'

'Ah.' The receptionist picked up the telephone, dialled a three-figure number, and asked if Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel was expecting a John Russell. He was. Another call produced a uniformed Rottenfuhrer to escort Herr Russell upstairs. He followed the shiny boots up, wondering why the Gestapo rarely wore their uniforms out of doors. A need for anonymity, he supposed. And Heydrich probably liked to economize on laundry bills.

The stone corridors were infinitely depressing. So many offices, so many thugs behind desks.

Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel looked the part. A shortish man with thinning fair hair, a face full of ruptured blood vessels and eyes the colour of canal water. There were beads of sweat on his brow, despite the wide open window and a shirt open at the collar. His leather coat was hanging on the door. 'Herr John Russell?' he said. 'How would you like to see Fraulein Koenen?'

'Very much.'

'You may have five minutes. No physical contact.' He turned to the Rottenfuhrer. 'Take him down and bring him back.'

This time they took a lift. The floors were numbered in the usual way, which seemed somewhat incongruous in the circumstances; basement, in particular, seemed a less than adequate description of the cell-lined corridor which awaited them. The silence of the grave was Russell's first impression, but this was soon superseded. A woman sobbing behind one door, a restless shuffle of feet behind another. A man's voice intoning 'shut up, shut up, shut up' as if he'd forgotten he was still speaking.

Oh my God, Russell thought. What had they done to her?

The Rottenfuhrer stopped outside the penultimate door on the right, pulled back the sliding panel for a brief glimpse inside, and drew back the two massive bolts. The door opened inwards, revealing Effi in the act of getting to her feet. As she spotted Russell behind the Rottenfuhrer her face lit up, and she almost jumped towards him.

'No physical contact,' the Gestapo man said, spreading his arms to keep them apart.

They stood facing each other. She was wearing grey overalls that lapped around her wrists and ankles, making her look more waif-like than ever. Her black hair looked tousled and unusually dull. She tucked one strand behind an ear. 'I never liked grey,' she said.

'How long have you been here?' Russell asked.

'Three nights and three days.'

'Have they hurt you?'

She shook her head. 'Not my body, anyway. But this is not a nice place.'

'Have they told you why you've been arrested?'

Effi smiled ruefully. 'Oh yes. That bitch Marianne Schoner informed on me. You know she never forgave me for getting the part in
Mother
. According to her, I said that Hitler had achieved the impossible - he'd surrounded himself with midgets yet still managed to look small.'

'But you didn't say it?'

'I probably did. It's not bad, is it? No, don't answer that - they'll have you in here too.'

It was his turn to smile. She was scared and she was angry, but there was still fire in her eyes. 'They've only given us five minutes. I'll get you out of here, I promise.'

'That would be good.'

'I love you.'

'And I you. I had much better plans for your homecoming than this.'

'They'll keep. Paul sends his love, wants to go to the Aquarium with you again.'

'Send him mine. Have you seen Zarah? Does she know I'm in here?'

'She's frantic with worry. They wouldn't let her see you.'

'Why not, for God's sake?

'I think this is aimed at me.'

She gave him a surprised look.

'There's nothing in the papers, nothing to stop them simply letting you go if they get something in return.'

She rubbed the side of her face. 'Why didn't I think of that? Oh I'm sorry, John. I should learn to keep my mouth shut.'

'I wouldn't want that.'

'What do they want from you?'

'I don't know yet. Just some favourable press, perhaps.' He glanced at the Rottenfuhrer, as if inviting him to join the conversation.

'That's five minutes,' the man said.

She reached out a hand, but before he could respond the Rottenfuhrer was between them, hustling him out of the cell. 'Try not to worry,' Russell shouted over his shoulder, conscious of how fatuous it sounded.

Back upstairs, Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel looked, if possible, even more pleased with himself. Russell took the proffered seat and implored himself to remain calm.

'Your passport,' Ritschel demanded, holding out a peremptory hand.

Russell passed it across. 'Has Fraulein Koenen been formally charged?' he asked.

'Not yet. Soon, perhaps. We are still taking witness statements. Any trial will not be for several weeks.'

'And until that time?'

'She will remain here. Space permitting, of course. It may be necessary to move her to Columbiahaus.'

Russell's heart sank, as it was supposed to.

'After sentencing it will be Ravensbruck, of course,' Ritschel added, as if determined to give a thorough account of Effi's future. 'And the sentence - unfairly perhaps - is bound to reflect Fraulein Koenen's celebrity status. A National Socialist court cannot be seen to favour the rich and famous. On the contrary...'

'Effi is hardly rich.'

'No? I understand that her father gave her an apartment on her twenty-fifth birthday. Do many Germans receive that sort of financial help? I did not. And neither, as far as I know, did anyone in this building.'

It was a hard point to argue without free access to all Gestapo bank accounts, which Russell was unlikely to be granted. 'The court may not share your presumption of guilt,' he said mildly.

'You know what she said?'

Russell took a deep breath. 'Yes, I do. But people have always made jokes about their political leaders. A pretty harmless way of expressing disagreement in my opinion.'

'Perhaps. But against the law, nevertheless.' He picked up the passport. 'Let's talk about you for a moment. Why have you become an American citizen, Herr Russell?'

'Because I'm afraid that England and Germany will soon be at war, and I do not wish to be separated from my son. Or from Fraulein Koenen.'

'Do you feel emotionally attached to America?'

'Not in the slightest,' Russell said firmly. 'It's a wholly vulgar country run by Jewish financiers,' he added, hoping he was not overdoing it.

Ritschel looked pleasantly surprised. 'Then why not become a German citizen?'

'My newspaper employs me as a foreign correspondent - if I ceased to be foreign I would no longer be seen as a neutral observer. And my mother would see it as a betrayal,' he added, egging the pudding somewhat. It seemed unwise to mention the real reason, that being a foreigner gave him a degree of immunity, and some hope of getting Paul and Effi out of the country should one or both of them ever decide they wanted to leave.

'I understand that you wish to keep your job, Herr Russell. But just between ourselves, let's recognize this "neutral observer" nonsense for what it is. The Reich has friends and enemies, and you would be wise - both for your own sake and that of your lady friend - to make it clear which side of that fence you are on.' His hand shot out with the passport. 'Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth of the Sicherheitsdienst wishes to see you at 11am on Wednesday. Room 47, 102 Wilhelmstrasse.'

Russell took the passport and stood up. 'When can I see Fraulein Koenen again?'

'That will depend on the outcome of your meeting with Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth.'

Standing on the pavement outside, Russell could still feel the movement of the Europa inside him. A black-uniformed sentry was eyeing him coldly, but he felt an enormous reluctance to leave, as if his being only a hundred metres away might somehow help to protect her.

He dragged himself away, and started up the wide Wilhelmstrasse. The government buildings on the eastern side - the Finance, Propaganda and Justice ministries - were all bathed in sunlight, the Fuhrer's digs on the western side cloaked, rather more suitably, in shadow. At the corner of Unter den Linden he almost sleep-walked into the Adlon Hotel, but decided at the last moment that an encounter with his foreign press corps colleagues was more than he could handle on this particular evening. He felt like a real drink, but decided on coffee at Schmidt's - if ever he needed a clear head it was now.

The cafe was almost empty, caught in the gap between its workday clientele and the evening crowd. After taking his choice of the window-seats Russell, more out of habit than desire, reached across for the newspaper that someone had left on the adjoining table. Hitler had opened an art exhibition in Munich, accompanied by the Gauleiter of Danzig and Comrade Astakhov, the Soviet charge d'affaires. This interesting combination had watched a procession of floats, most of which were described in mind-numbing detail. Sudetenland was a silver eagle, Bohemia a pair of lions guarding the gateway to the East, as represented by a couple of Byzantine minarets. The Fuhrer had gone to see
The Merry Widow
that evening, but 'Miss Madeleine Verne, the solo dancer' had failed to show up.

Who could blame her?

Russell tossed the newspaper back. He didn't feel ready for re-immersion into Nazi Germany's bizarre pantomime.

At least the coffee was good. The only decent cup he'd had in America was in the Italian pavilion at the World's Fair.

Zarah, he reminded himself. The telephone in the back corridor was not being used, and he stood beside it for a few seconds before dialling, wondering what he was going to say. Not the truth, anyway. She picked up after the first ring, and sounded as if she'd been crying.

'I've seen her,' he said. 'She's fine. They've told me to come back on Wednesday, and they'll probably release her then.'

'Why? I don't understand. If they're going to release her, why not now?'

'Bureaucracy, I think. She has to receive a formal warning from some official or other. They didn't give me any details.'

'But she will be released on Wednesday?'

'That's what I was told,' he said. There was no point in her spending the next two days in a state of high anxiety. If the Sicherheitsdienst was playing sick games with them, she'd find out soon enough.

'Thank you, John,' she said. 'They won't let me see her, I suppose.'

'I don't think so. They won't let me see her again until then. I think it's probably better to just wait.'

'Yes, I can see that. But she's all right.'

'She's fine. A little frightened, but fine.'

'Thank you.'

'I'll ring you on Wednesday. Effi will ring you.'

'Thank you.'

He jiggled the cut-off switch and dialled Ilse's number. 'Paul's in the bath,' his ex-wife told him.

'I've seen Effi and she's all right. Can you tell him that?'

'Of course. But...'

'I think they're going to let her go on Wednesday.'

'That's good. You must be relieved. More than relieved.'

'You could say that.'

'Paul seems to have had a wonderful time.'

'He did, didn't he? I hope he doesn't find the transition too difficult. It's a bit like coming up from the ocean floor - you need to take your time.'

'Mmm. I'll watch for signs. What about this weekend? Are you...'

'He'll want to catch up with all of you, won't he? I'd like to see him, but maybe just a couple of hours?'

'That sounds good, but I'll ask him.'

'Thanks, Ilse.'

'I hope it all goes well.'

'Me too.'

He went back to the rest of his coffee, ordered a schnapps to go with it. He supposed he should eat, but didn't feel hungry. What would Heydrich's organization want from him? More to the point, would it be something in his power to give? The Sicherheitsdienst - the SD, as it was popularly known - had started life as the Nazi Party's intelligence apparatus, and now served the Nazi state in the same role. It thrived on betrayals, but the only person Russell could betray was himself. No, that wasn't strictly true. There was the sailor in Kiel who had given him the Baltic fleet dispositions, not to mention the man's prostitute girlfriend. But if the SD knew anything about Kiel, he wouldn't be drinking schnapps in a cafe on the Unter den Linden.

So what did they want him for? As an informant, perhaps. A snitch in the expatriate community. And among the German press corps. He had a lot of friends and acquaintances who still wrote - with well-concealed disgust in most cases - for the Nazi press. Effi might be asked to report on her fellow thespians.

Or maybe they were more interested in his communist contacts. They certainly knew about his communist past, and after the business in March they probably had a highly exaggerated notion of his current involvement. They might want to use him as bait, luring comrades up to the surface.

The latter seemed more likely on reflection, but who knew what the bastards were thinking?

He paid the bill and stood out on the pavement once more. Where to go - his rooms in Hallesches Tor or Effi's flat, where he'd been spending the majority of his nights? Her flat, he decided. Check that everything was all right, make sure the Gestapo had remembered to flush.

When it came down to it, he just wanted to feel close to her.

He walked through to Friedrichstrasse and took a westbound Stadtbahn train. There was a leaflet on the only empty seat. He picked it up, sat down, and looked at it. 'Do you want another war?' the headline asked him. The text below advised resistance.

Looking up, he noticed that several of his fellow-passengers were staring at him. Wondering, he supposed, what he was going to do with the treasonous missive now that he'd read it. He thought about crumpling the leafl et up and dropping it, but felt a sudden, unreasoning loyalty to whoever had taken the enormous risk of writing, producing and distributing it. Two minutes later, as his train drew into Zoo Station, he placed the leaflet back on the seat where he'd found it and got off. The attractive young woman sitting opposite gave him what might have been an encouraging smile.