Effis audience had gone home by the time he reached the theater on Nurnbergstrasse, and he only had to wait a few minutes for her to emerge from the dressing rooms. She had forgotten to eat anything between the matinee and evening shows, and was starving. They walked to a new bar on the Kudamm which one of the new Valkyries had told her served the most incredible omelettes.
They were indeed incredible, but the male clientele, most of whom seemed to be in uniform, left a lot to be desired. Four SS men took a neighboring table soon after their food arrived, and grew increasingly vocal with each round of schnapps. Russell could almost feel their need for a target take shape.
Effi was telling him about Zarahs latest neurosisher sister was increasingly worried that her infant son was a slow learnerwhen the first comments were directed at their table. One of the SS men had noticed Effis Jewish looks and loudly remarked on the fact to his companions. He was only about twenty, Russell thought, and when he succeeded in catching the young mans eye, he had the brief satisfaction of seeing a hint of shame in the way the man quickly looked away.
By this time Effi was rifling through her purse. Finding what she was looking for, and ignoring him, she stood up, advanced on the SS table, and held the
The manager was already at her shoulder. Fraulein, please. . . . he began.
I want these drunken pigs thrown out, she told him.
The oldest of the SS men was also on his feet. I would advise you to be careful, fraulein, he said. You may not be a Jew, but that doesnt give you the right to insult members of the Fuhrers bodyguard.
Effi ignored him. Are you going to throw these pigs out? she asked the manager.
He looked mortified. I. . . .
Very well. You wont get any more business from me. Or any of my friends. I hope, she concluded with one last contemptuous glance at the SS, that you can make a living selling swill to these pigs.
She headed for the door, as Russell, half-amused and half-fearful, counted out a few marks for their meal and listened to the SS men argue about whether to arrest her. When one of them took a step toward the door he blocked the way. You did call her a Jew, he said mildly, looking straight at the oldest man. Surely you can understand how upsetting that might be. She meant no disrespect.
The man gave him a slight bow of the head. She would do well to control her anger a little better, he said coldly.
She would, Russell agreed. Have a good evening, he added, and turned toward the door.
Outside he found Effi shaking with laughter, though whether from humor or hysteria he wasnt quite sure. He put an arm around her shoulder and waited for the shaking to stop. Lets go home.
Lets, she agreed.
They crossed the busy avenue and headed up one of the side streets.
Sometimes I wish I was a Jew, she said. If the Nazis hate them that much, they must be real human beings.
Russell grunted his acquiescence. I heard a joke the other day, he said. Hitler goes rowing on the Wannsee, but hes not very good at it, and manages to overturn the boat. A boy in a passing boat manages to haul him out and save him from drowning. Hitler, as you can imagine, is overcome with gratitude and promises the boy whatever he wants. The boy thinks for a moment, and asks for a state funeral. Hitler says, Youre a bit young for that, arent you? The boy says, Oh, mein Fuhrer, when I tell my dad Ive saved you from drowning hes going to kill me!
Effi started laughing again, and he did too. For what seemed like minutes they stood on the sidewalk, embracing and shaking with mirth.
NEXT AFTERNOON THOMAS AND JOACHIM were waiting in the usual place, sitting on a low wall with cartons of half-consumed frankfurters and
Once inside the Plumpe they headed for their usual spot, opposite the edge of the penalty area, halfway up the terrace on the western side. As their two sons read each others magazines, Russell and Thomas sat themselves down on the concrete step and chatted. Hows business? Russell asked.
Its good, Thomas said, unbuttoning his overcoat. Hed been running the family paper business since his and Ilses father had died a few years earlier. Its getting harder to find experienced staff, but other than that. . . . He shrugged. Theres no lack of orders. How about you?
Not too bad. Ive got the opening of the new Chancellery tomorrow, and there should be a decent piece in thatthe Americans like that sort of thing.
Well thats good. How about Danzig? Did you get anything there?
Not really. Russell explained about the stamp wars.
Thomas rolled his eyes in frustration. Like children, he muttered. Speaking of which, Joachims been called up for his
When?
The beginning of March.
Russell looked up at Joachim, engrossed in his magazine. Ah, he said, glad that Paul was still six years away from the year of drilling, draining swamps, and digging roads which the Nazis imposed on all seventeen-year-old boys. How does he feel about it?
Oh, he cant wait, Thomas said, glancing affectionately up at his son. I suppose it cant do him any harm. Unlike whatll probably follow.
Russell knew what he meant. When theyd first become friends over ten years ago, he and Thomas had talked a lot about their experiences in the war. Both had friends whod survived the war in body, yet never recovered their peace of mind. And both knew that they themselves had been changed in ways that they would never fully understand. And that they had been the lucky ones.
Happy days, Russell murmured, and then laughed. We had a run-in with the SS last night, he said, and told Thomas the story.
He wasnt as amused as Russell expected. Shell go too far one of these days. The
I know, Russell said. She knows. But she does it so well.
A chorus of catcalls erupted around them: Viktoria Berlin were on their way out. As the two men got to their feet, Hertha emerged to a more affectionate welcome. Casting his eyes over the towering grandstand and the high crowded terraces behind each goal, Russell felt the usual surge of excitement. Glancing to his left, he saw that Pauls eyes mirrored his own.
The first half was all Hertha, but Viktoria scored the only goal on a breakaway just before the interval. Joachim seethed with indignation, while Paul yo-yoed between hope and anxiety. Thomas smoked two cigarettes.
The second half followed the same pattern, and there were only ten minutes left when Herthas inside-left was tripped in the penalty area. He took the penalty himself. The ball hit both posts before going in, leaving the crowd in hysterics. A minute from time, with evening falling and the light abruptly fading, Herthas center-forward raced onto a long bouncing ball and volleyed it home from almost thirty yards. The Viktoria goalkeeper hadn't moved. As the stadium exploded with joy he just stood there, making angry gestures at his teammates, the referee, the rest of the world.
Paul was ecstatic. Eyes shining, he joined in the chant now echoing round the arena: Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC! Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC!
For an eleven-year-old, Russell thought fondly, this was as good as it got.
IT WAS DARK BY the time he dropped Paul off. He took a 76 back into town, ate supper at a beer restaurant just off the Potsdamerplatz, and walked the last kilometer home. Reaching his street, he noticed what looked like the same empty car parked across from his apartment block. He was on his way to investigate it when he heard the scream.
