century Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick I. As one of his generals wives, she sang part of the joyous send-off when they left for the Crusades, and part of the lament for those who failed to come home. Like most of the cast, she wasnt much of a singer, but no one had bothered to include musical ability, a decent script, or memorable songs in the production. It was, as one of the early Berlin reviews put it, a hymn to national consciousness.
Much to Effis disgust it had pulled in large audiences, both in Berlin during the weeks leading up to Christmas and across the Reich during the holiday season itself. A second season in Berlin was beginning that night and Effi expected the seats to be full again: All those who couldn't believe how bad it was the first time will be coming back to make sure.
Russell hadn't seen her for almost a fortnight, which seemed a long time. They generally spent as much of the weekend together as theirmostly herwork allowed, along with at least one night in midweek and an unpredictable number of lunches and afternoons. She was fond of saying that her three-year marriage to a now- famous actor had left her with a love of living alone, and had never suggested that Russell move in with her. He told himself and everyone else that he was happy, more than happy, with their days and nights together, and happy to spend the other days and nights without her. And most of the time he believed it. Just occasionally he found himself thinking that love was indivisible, and that loving someone was resenting each hour apart. He did love Effi, from her long raven hair to her small brown toes. He loved everything about her, he thought, looking at his watch, except for her complete inability to arrive anywhere on time.
It was 12:25 when she finally appeared. She was wearing the black overcoat which almost reached her ankles, a new crimson scarf wrapped around her neck, chin, and mouth, and the Russian fur hat she had bought in Moscow ten years before, yet even trussed up like a mummy she turned the heads of male passersby. Ive got a cold, was the first thing she said once theyd embraced. I need soup.
Russell suggested that they go inside, but she refused. Fresh airs the best thing for colds, she insisted.
He got them both bowls of soup and watched her demolish hers. We got in at four in the morning, she said between spoonfuls, and weve got to be in early this evening to discuss some changes the musical director has in mind.
A new score? Russell asked.
If only. Itll be nothing. He just has to justify the fact that hes still being paid. She started tearing up a roll and dropping it in the soup. Youll pick me up after the show?
Of course. Ill come and watch the last half hour if theyll let me in. Its the same man on the door?
I dont know. But Ill make sure they know youre coming. She spooned a chunk of sodden bread into her mouth. This is good. I feel better already. How have you been? Hows Paul?
Havent seen him yet. But he sounds all right.
Danzig?
Suitably gloomy, he said. He told her about the stamp wars, which made her laugh, and the Soviet request for articles, which drew a raised eyebrow. Its just work, he said. There didn't seem any point in mentioning the oral reports, or in spoiling their reunion with an account of the
She used the last of his roll to soak up the last of her soup. I feel much better, she said again. And Ive still got three hours before I have to be at the theater. She reached out a slender hand for his. Shall we go back to the flat?
LATER THAT EVENING, RUSSELL arrived backstage in time to hear the lament for the fallen heroes. It seemed more Wagnerian than ever, and he realized that the musical director had decided to apply the Third Reichs guiding principlenever speak when you can shout. The military widows now had an entire choir of breast-swelling Valkyries to augment their lamentations. The front rows of the audience looked suitably stunned.
After the show, Russell talked football with the stage-door-keeper while he waited for Effi. She emerged after half an hour or so, still snuffling but full of post-performance energy. It was clear and cold outside, the sidewalks crowded with people. They walked arm in arm past the entrance to the aquarium, and along the southern side of the zoo toward the glowing glasshouse which straddled the elevated lines at Zoo Station. The station buffet was doing a roaring trade, but they managed to find a couple of stools and order a nightcap. This was the last place in Berlin where Jews could still buy a coffee, but there were no obvious Jewish faces in evidence. The city by night was an Aryan preserve.
As they left the buffet an international express steamed out across Hardenbergstrasse, rumbling the girders of the bridge and pumping bursts of white smoke toward the stars. Russell found himself wishing, if only for a moment, that he and Effi were two of the silhouettes in the necklace of illuminated windows, headed for another life in Amsterdam or Paris or New Yorkanywhere, in fact, beyond Hitlers rancid realm.
It was almost one when they got back to the flat. Their lovemaking that afternoon had been almost frenzied, but now they took it slowly, luxuriously, taking each other to the brink again and again before finally, joyously, tumbling over it together. Wrapped in each others arms, Effi went to sleep almost immediately, but Russells brain refused to let him be. He had not been angry with the Nazis that morning, he realized. He had been angry with himself. Angry at his own helplessness. Angry that all he could manage was fantasies of escape.
It suddenly occurred to him that his imaginary book of photographs might make a real impact abroad. Especially in America, where the Jewish organizations had some political clout. He could get pictures of old Jewish businesses from press libraries and shoot the rest himself with Zembskis camera. Getting it out would be a problem, but hed worry about thatand ensuring his own anonymitywhen the time came. And if anyone noticed him taking pictures of burned-out synagogues he could say he was compiling the record of anti-Semitic triumphs he had originally envisaged. He smiled to himself in the dark.
THE NEXT MORNING THEY walked to their usual cafe in the Tiergarten for milky coffee and rolls. The winter sun was already riding high in the southeastern sky, and as they strolled back along the northern bank of the Landwehrkanal it seemed as if most of Berlin had had the same idea. Effi had arranged to meet her older sister Zarah for lunch, something she often did when Russell was seeing his son. He had never particularly liked Zarah, who had none of Effis fitful ability to look beyond herself, and had married an ambitious Nazi civil servant. Soon after Russell met Effi, she had asked his help in arranging an abortion for Zarah in England, which he had done. Zarah had traveled to London, decided at the last moment she couldn't go through with it, and had eventually given birth to a boy. Much to everyones surprise, she had doted on the child from day one. Much to Russells annoyance, she blamed him for the fact that she had nearly had an abortion.
After he and Effi parted, Russell caught a 76 tram outside the zoo for Grunewald, and watched the houses grow bigger as it worked its way through Halensee and into Berlins prosperous southwestern suburbs. Pauls school was a five-minute walk from the tram terminus, and just down the road from the large tree-shrouded villa which his stepfather Matthias Gehrts had inherited from his father. Both school and villa backed onto one of the small lakes which dotted the area, and sitting on a low wall besides the school gates, Russell had occasional glimpses of sailboats between buildings. A couple of women arrived on foot to pick up their sons, but his fellow dads all arrived in cars, and stood around discussing the reliability of their mechanics.
The
So where shall we go today? Russell asked.
The Funkturm.
Again? They had visited Berlins radio tower at least half a dozen times in 1938.
I like it there.
Okay. Lets get a tram then. Do you want me to carry that? he asked, indicating the large book his son was holding.
Well take turns, Paul decided.
What is it? Russell asked.
Its the yearbook, Paul said, holding it out.
The Hitler Youth Yearbook, Russell realized, as he skimmed through the pages. There were 500 of them. So what did you do today?
