ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
Copyright S 2007 by David Downing
Martha Pappenheim (1900-2001)
who escaped from Germany in 1939
and went on to help the children
of those who did not
Yvonne Pappenheim (1912-2005)
who married Marthas brother Fritz
and spent a lifetime fighting injustice
AUTHORS NOTE
This is a work of fiction, but every attempt has been made to keep within the bounds of historical possibility. References to the Nazis planned murder of the mentally handicapped are mostly drawn from Michael Burleighs exhaustive history
Into the Blue
THERE WERE TWO HOURS left of 1938. In Danzig it had been snowing on and off all day, and a gang of children was enjoying a snowball fight in front of the grain warehouses which lined the old waterfront. John Russell paused to watch them for a few moments, then walked on up the cobbled street toward the blue and yellow lights.
The Sweden Bar was far from crowded, and those few faces that turned his way werent exactly brimming over with festive spirit. In fact, most of them looked like theyd rather be somewhere else.
It was an easy thing to want. The Christmas decorations hadn't been removed, just allowed to drop, and they now formed part of the flooring, along with patches of melting slush, floating cigarette butts, and the odd broken bottle. The bar was famous for the savagery of its international brawls, but on this particular night the various groups of Swedes, Finns, and Letts seemed devoid of the energy needed to get one started. Usually a table or two of German naval ratings could be relied upon to provide the necessary spark, but the only Germans present were a couple of aging prostitutes, and they were getting ready to leave.
Russell took a stool at the bar, bought himself a Goldwasser, and glanced through the month-old copy of the
Seeing him reading, a solitary Swede two stools down asked him, in perfect English, if he spoke that language. Russell admitted that he did.
You are English! the Swede exclaimed, and shifted his considerable bulk to the stool adjoining Russells.
Their conversation went from friendly to sentimental, and sentimental to maudlin, at what seemed like a breakneck pace. Three Goldwassers later, the Swede was telling him that he, Lars, was not the true father of his children. Vibeke had never admitted it, but he knew it to be true.
Russell gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and Lars sunk forward, his head making a dull clunk as it hit the polished surface of the bar. Happy New Year, Russell murmured. He shifted the Swedes head slightly to ease the mans breathing, and got up to leave.
Outside, the sky was beginning to clear, the air almost cold enough to sober him up. An organ was playing in the Protestant Seamens Church, nothing hymnal, just a slow lament, as if the organist were saying a personal farewell to the year gone by. It was a quarter to midnight.
Russell walked back across the city, conscious of the moisture seeping in through the holes in his shoes. There were lots of couples on Langer Markt, laughing and squealing as they clutched each other for balance on the slippery sidewalks.
He cut over to Breite Gasse and reached the Holz-Markt just as the bells began pealing in the New Year. The square was full of celebrating people, and an insistent hand pulled him into a circle of revelers dancing and singing in the snow. When the song ended and the circle broke up, the Polish girl on his left reached up and brushed her lips against his, eyes shining with happiness. It was, he thought, a better-than-expected opening to 1939.
HIS HOTELS RECEPTION AREA was deserted, and the sounds of celebration emanating from the kitchen at the back suggested the night staff were enjoying their own private party. Russell gave up the idea of making himself a hot chocolate while his shoes dried in one of the ovens, and took his key. He clambered up the stairs to the third floor, and trundled down the corridor to his room. Closing the door behind him, he became painfully aware that the occupants of the neighboring rooms were still welcoming in the new year, loud singing on one side, floor-shaking sex on the other. He took off his shoes and socks, dried his wet feet with a towel, and sank back onto the vibrating bed.
There was a discreet, barely audible tap on his door.
Cursing, he levered himself off the bed and pulled the door open. A man in a crumpled suit and open shirt stared back at him.
Mr. John Russell, the man said in English, as if he were introducing Russell to himself. The Russian accent was slight, but unmistakable. Could I talk with you for a few minutes?
Its a bit late . . . Russell began. The mans 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 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 twenty-four.
Shchepkin nodded his acknowledgment. I remember your contributions, he said. Full of passion, he added, his eyes circling the room and resting, for a few seconds, on his hosts dilapidated shoes.
