It was no ordinary scream. It was loud and lingering, and it somehow managed to encompass surprise, terror, and appalling pain. For a brief instant, Russell was back in the trenches, listening to someone whod just lost a limb to a shell.
It came from further down the street.
He hesitated, but only long enough for his brain to register that hesitation as an essential corollary of living in Nazi Germany. All too often, screams meant officialdom, and experience suggested that officialdom was best avoided at such moments.
Still, investigating one seemed a legitimate practice, even in Nazi Germany. Not all crimes were committed by the state or its supporters. Russell walked resolutely on past the courtyard which his block shared with its neighbor, telling himself that valor was the better part of discretion.
The source of the disturbance was the further of the two blocks off the next courtyard. A couple of men were hovering in the entrance, obviously uncertain what to do. They eyed Russell nervously, and looked at each other when he asked them what was going on. Both were in their forties, and an obvious facial similarity suggested brothers.
In the courtyard beyond, an open-backed truck was parked with its engine running, and a single man in an SA uniform was walking toward them.
Keep moving, he told them, without any real conviction. His breath stank of beer.
But we live here, one of the two men said.
Just wait there, then, the stormtrooper said, looking up at the illuminated windows on the third floor. You might get some free entertainment, he added over his shoulder as he walked back toward the truck.
Seconds later, another bloodcurdling scream reverberated round the courtyard.
What in Gods name . . . ? Russell began. Who lives up there? he asked the two men.
Two actors, the older of the two replied.
No other lights were showing in either block, but Russell could almost feel the silent audience watching from behind the tiers of darkened windows. He thought about calling the police, but knew there was no point.
One of the illuminated windows was suddenly flung open, and a man appeared silhouetted against the opening, looking out and down. A crying, whimpering sound was now audible, and just as the man disappeared another scream split the night, even more piercing than the last. There was a flurry of movement inside the lighted room, and suddenly a naked body was flying out through the window, dropping, screaming, hitting the floor of the courtyard with a sickening, silencing thud. The body twitched once and lay still, as desperate, sobbing pleas of no, please, no leaked out of the open window. Another flurry, another naked body, this one twisting in flight like an Olympic diver whod mistaken concrete for water. There was no twitch this time, no last-second adjustment to death.
The two lay a couple of feet apart, in the thin pool of light thrown by the blocks entrance lamp. One man was face down, the other face up, with only a glistening mess where his genitals had been.
With a shock, Russell recognized the mans face. Hed seen himtalked to him evenat one of Effis theatrical gatherings. He had no memory of the mans name, but hed been nice enough. With a passion for Hollywood movies, Russell remembered. Katherine Hepburn in particular.
Shows over, the SA man was saying loudly. You saw it. They must have cut each others pricks off before they jumped. He laughed. You can go in now, he added.
Russells two companions looked like they were in shock. One started to say something, but no sound emerged, and the other just gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. They walked toward their door, giving a wide birth to the two corpses.
And you? the SA man shouted at Russell.
I was just passing, he said automatically.
Then keep moving, the SA man ordered.
Russell obediently turned and walked away, his eyes still full of the mutilated bodies. The bile in his stomach wouldn't stay down. Supporting himself against a lamppost he retched his supper into the gutter, then leaned against a wall, brain swirling with the usual useless rage. Another crime that would never be punished, another story that begged to be told.
And would he risk losing his son to tell it? No, he wouldn't.
And was he ashamed of his silence? Yes, he was.
He levered himself off the wall and walked slowly on toward his own courtyard and block. As he reached the entrance he remembered the empty car. It was gone.
Inside, Frau Heidegger seemed, as usual, to be waiting for him. What was all that noise about? she asked, then noticed his face. Herr Russell, you look like youve seen a ghost!
The SA came for a couple of homosexuals in the next block, he said. There seemed no point in giving her the gory details.
Oh, she said, shaking her head in involuntary denial. I know the men you mean. They . . . well . . . its not our business, is it? She ducked back inside her door and re-emerged with an unstamped envelope. This came for you. A plainclothes policeman delivered it this morning.
He opened it. The Gestapo wished to see him. Within three days.
They just want a chat, he reassured her. Something to do with my accreditation, I expect.
Ah, she said, sounding less than completely convinced.
Russell shared her misgivings. As he climbed the stairs, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Theyd read his letter to the Soviets, and just wanted to clarify his intentions. If it was anything else, they wouldn't be delivering invitations and letting him pick the daytheyd be throwing him out of the window.
A frisson of fear shot across his chest, and his legs felt strangely unsteady. Suddenly the photographic book seemed like a very bad idea.
Ha ho bloody he, he muttered to himself.
The Knauer Boy
THE GESTAPOS INVITATION TO dance was still on Russells desk when he got up the following morning. One Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist was expecting to see John Russell in Room 48, 102 Wilhelmstrasse, within the next 72 hours. No explanation was offered.
It wasnt actually the Gestapo102 Wilhelmstrasse was the head-quarters of the Party intelligence organization, the
He read the letter through again, looking for a more sinister message between the lines, and decided there was none. Shchepkin had said theyd want to talk to him, and they did. It was as simple as that. A friendly warning was waiting in Room 48, and nothing more. Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist would turn out to be a Hertha supporter, and they would chat about what had gone wrong this season.
Still, Russell thought as he shaved, there was no reason to hurry down there. He couldn't afford to miss the new Chancellery opening at noon, and there was no telling how long the various ceremonies would take. Tomorrow would do. Or even Wednesday.
Back in his room, he picked up the Leica and took a few imaginary photos. It had no flash, but Zembski had said the lens was good enough for indoor shooting as long as he held the camera steady. And he could always ask the Fuhrer for the loan of a shoulder.
Cheered by this thoughtfeeling, in fact, unreasonably buoyant for someone with an appointment at 102 Wilhelmstrassehe headed downstairs and out into the gray January morning. As if in response to his mood, a tram glided to a halt at the stop on Friedrichstrasse just as he reached it. Ten minutes later he was ensconced in a Cafe Kranzler window seat, enjoying a first sip of his breakfast coffee as he examined the morning papers.
Foreign Minister Ribbentrop had been talking to the visiting Polish leader, Colonel Becknow there were two men who deserved each other. The new battle cruiser
