Russell perched himself on the edge of the bed. As you saida long time ago. He and Ilse had met at that conference and set in motion their ten year cycle of marriage, parenthood, separation, and divorce. Shchepkins hair had been black and wavy in 1924; now it was a close-cropped gray. They were both a little older than the century, Russell guessed, and Shchepkin was wearing pretty well, considering what hed probably been through the last fifteen years. He had a handsome face of indeterminate nationality, with deep brown eyes above prominent slanting cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and lips just the full side of perfect. He could have passed for a citizen of most European countries, and probably had.
The Russian completed his survey of the room. This is a dreadful hotel, he said.
Russell laughed. Is that what you wanted to talk about?
No. Of course not.
So what are you here for?
Ah. Shchepkin hitched his trouser again. I am here to offer you work.
Russell raised an eyebrow. You? Who exactly do you represent?
The Russian shrugged. My country. The Writers Union. It doesnt matter. You will be working for us. You know who we are.
No, Russell said. I mean, no Im not interested. I
Dont be so hasty, Shchepkin said. Hear me out. We arent asking you to do anything which your German hosts could object to. The Russian allowed himself a smile. Let me tell you exactly what we have in mind. We want a series of articles about positive aspects of the Nazi regime. He paused for a few seconds, waiting in vain for Russell to demand an explanation. You are not German but you live in Berlin, Shchepkin went on. You once had a reputation as a journalist of the left, and though that reputation hasshall we sayfaded, no one could accuse you of being an apologist for the Nazis . . .
But you want me to be just that.
No, no. We want positive aspects, not a positive picture overall. That would not be believable.
Russell was curious in spite of himself. Or because of the Goldwassers. Do you just need my name on these articles? he asked. Or do you want me to write them as well?
Oh, we want you to write them. We like your styleall that irony.
Russell shook his head: Stalin and irony didn't seem like much of a match.
Shchepkin misread the gesture. Look, he said, let me put all my cards on the table.
Russell grinned.
Shchepkin offered a wry smile in return. Well, most of them anyway. Look, we are aware of your situation. You have a German son and a German lady-friend, and you want to stay in Germany if you possibly can. Of course if a war breaks out you will have to leave, or else they will intern you. But until that moment comesand maybe it wontmiracles do happenuntil it does you want to earn your living as a journalist without upsetting your hosts. What better way than this? You write nice things about the Nazisnot too nice, of course; it has to be crediblebut you stress their good side.
Does shit have a good side? Russell wondered out loud.
Come, come, Shchepkin insisted, you know better than that. Unemployment eliminated, a renewed sense of community, healthy children, cruises for workers, cars for the people. . . .
You should work for Joe Goebbels.
Shchepkin gave him a mock-reproachful look.
Okay, Russell said, I take your point. Let me ask you a question. Theres only one reason youd want that sort of article: Youre softening up your own people for some sort of deal with the devil. Right?
Shchepkin flexed his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.
Why?
The Russian grunted. Why deal with the devil? I dont
Russell could. The western powers are trying to push Hitler east, so Stalin has to push him west? Are we talking about a non-aggression pact, or something more?
Shchepkin looked almost affronted. What more could there be? Any deal with that man can only be temporary. We know what he is.
Russell nodded. It made sense. He closed his eyes, as if it were possible to blank out the approaching calamity. On the other side of the opposite wall, his musical neighbors were intoning one of those Polish river songs which could reduce a statue to tears. Through the wall behind him silence had fallen, but his bed was still quivering like a tuning fork.
Wed also like some information, Shchepkin was saying, almost apologetically. Nothing military, he added quickly, seeing the look on Russells face. No armament statistics or those naval plans that Sherlock Holmes is always being asked to recover. Nothing of that sort. We just want a better idea of what ordinary Germans are thinking. How they are taking the changes in working conditions, how they are likely to react if war comesthat sort of thing. We dont want any secrets, just your opinions. And nothing on paper. You can deliver them in person, on a monthly basis.
Russell looked skeptical.
Shchepkin ploughed on. You will be well paidvery well. In any currency, any bank, any country, that you choose. You can move into a better apartment block. . . .
I like my apartment block.
You can buy things for your son, your girlfriend. You can have your shoes mended.
I dont. . . .
The money is only an extra. You were with us once. . . .
A long long time ago.
Yes, I know. But you cared about your fellow human beings. I heard you talk. That doesnt change. And if
A cynic might say theres not much to choose between you.
The cynic would be wrong, Shchepkin replied, exasperated and perhaps a little angry. We have spilled blood, yes. But reluctantly, and in hope of a better future. They enjoy it. Their idea of progress is a European slave- state.
I know.
One more thing. If money and politics dont persuade you, think of this. We will be grateful, and we have influence almost everywhere. And a man like you, in a situation like yours, is going to need influential friends.
No doubt about that.
Shchepkin was on his feet. Think about it, Mr. Russell, he said, drawing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placing it on the nightstand. All the details are in herehow many words, delivery dates, fees, and so on. If you decide to do the articles, write to our press attache in Berlin, telling him who you are, and that youve had the idea for them yourself. He will ask you to send him one in the post. The Gestapo will read it, and pass it on. You will then receive your first fee and suggestions for future stories. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentence will spell out the name of a city outside Germany which you can reach fairly easily. Prague, perhaps, or Cracow. You will spend the last weekend of the month in that city, and be sure to make your hotel reservation at least a week in advance. Once you are there, someone will contact you.
Ill think about it, Russell said, mostly to avoid further argument. He wanted to spend his weekends with Paul, and with Effi, his girlfriend, not the Shchepkins of this world.
The Russian nodded and let himself out. As if on cue, the Polish choir lapsed into silence.
RUSSELL WAS WOKEN BY the scream of a locomotive whistle. Or at least, that was his first impression. Lying there awake all he could hear was a gathering swell of high-pitched voices. It sounded like a school playground full of terrified children.
He threw on some clothes and made his way downstairs. It was still dark, the street deserted, the tramlines hidden beneath a virginal sheet of snow. In the train station booking hall across the street a couple of would-be travelers were hunched in their seats, eyes averted, praying that they hadn't strayed into dangerous territory. Russell strode through the unmanned ticket barrier. There were trucks in the goods yard beyond the far platform, and a train stretched out past the station throat. People were gathered under the yellow lights, mostly families by
