The Fuhrers angry with the Czechs, she said from the kitchen, as if following his thoughts.
What about? Russell asked.
Does it matter? she asked, coming in with the familiar pot.
No, he agreed. He was often surprised by Frau Heideggers perceptiveness, and surprised that he could still be surprised.
I told my brother-in-law what you said about air defenses, she went on. He said he hoped you were right.
So do I, Russell agreed again.
After climbing the stairs to his apartment he wished he hadn't: The combination of muggy weather and full throttle heating had made it feel like the hot room of a Turkish bath. He tried opening a window, but there was no welcome hint of cooler air. He tried reading, but nothing seemed to stick.
He went out again. It was just after fourhe had about six hours to kill. He walked south down Belle-Alliance Strasse to Viktoria Park, climbed to the brow of the Kreuzberg, and found an empty bench with a view across the city. There was even a slight breeze.
The sky darkened, and his mood seemed to darken with it.
He thought about Effi and the film. Theyd had fun that morning, but it was a pretty disgusting piece of work. Did she have any qualms about doing it? She hadn't said so. He couldn't believe she needed the money, and hed heard her views on the Nazi attitude toward women often enough. So why was she doing it? Should he ask her? Was it possible to ask someone a question like that without making it an accusation?
He decided it wasnt, but later that night, halfway down an empty street on their way home from the theater, he asked it anyway.
To make a living? she answered sarcastically.
But you dont. . . . he said, and stopped himself. But not soon enough.
Lots of people think that because my family is rich, Im rich, she said coldly. I took the flat when they offered it. Ten years ago. And I havent taken anything since.
I know.
Then what. . . .
He sighed. Its just so sordid. I hate the idea of you playing in something . . . in playing a part that goes against everything you believe.
That just makes it more of a challenge.
Yes, but the better you do it, the more convincing you are, the more women will think they have to accept all this nonsense.
She stopped in her tracks. Are we talking about my work or yours? she asked. How about your paean to Strength Through Joy cruises? Or your car for every German worker piece. Youve hardly been cutting the ground from under their feet.
He bit back the surge of anger. She was right.
They both were.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, HE went to the Plumpe. Paul had asked him for a program, and with Effi visiting her family that seemed a good enough reason for going. He had Thomas and Joachim for company, but he missed Paul, and the game itself was direa dull 1-1 draw with Berliner SV. Thomas was subduedlike Frau Heidegger and 75 million other Germans hed noticed the telltale flurry of government antagonism toward the Czechs. Sandwiched between SV supporters on the southbound U-bahn they arranged to have lunch on the following Thursday.
Back at the apartment he found a courier delivery waiting for him: a copy of the previous days
There was also the promised list of suggestions for future articles. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentencewho thought up this stuff?spelled Cracow. Russell groaned. Two 16-hour train journeys, just for a chat with Shchepkin. At least, he hoped it was just for a chat.
Zygmunts Chapel
THIS IS IT, McKinley said, with the sort of enthusiasm others reserved for stumbling across El Dorado. The object of his excitement was a short cul-de-sac of decaying tenement blocks wedged between railway arches, small industrial workshops, and the Neukollner Schiffahrtkanal. One forlorn streetlight threw a faint yellow glow over glistening brickwork and rusty iron. It looked, Russell thought, like the sort of place a particularly sentimental German communist would come to die.
They had been looking for it for almost an hour, ever since playing hide-and-seek with their probably imaginary Gestapo tail in the Neukolln branch of the KaDeWe department store. The object of their quest had, according to McKinley, told them to make sure they were not followed, and he had done his best to oblige, leading Russell into the store by the main entrance and out through the kitchens, pursued only by the shouts of an enraged chef. They had then headed east on foot, turning this way and that down a succession of rapidly darkening and profoundly unwelcoming streets. Russell had expected streams of workers returning home, but they had only come across a few, and McKinleys requests for navigational assistance had been met with either guarded suspicion or outright hostility. Russell had wondered whether the young American could feel the money burning a hole in his pocket. There were lights behind the curtains of the residential streets, but they felt far away.
This street, Schonlanker Strasse, was no exception. The block they were looking for was the last, pushed up against the elevated tracks of what was probably a freight line. As they reached the entrance another source of light came into viewthe red glow of a signal hanging in the darkness.
The limp swastika hanging over the entrance looked like it hadn't been washed since 1933. Entering the dimly lit hall, they found the concierges door. McKinley tried two taps with the door-knockertoo softly, Russell thought, but the door swung open almost immediately. A middle-aged woman with a rather striking face ushered them inside and quickly closed the door behind them.
Who is this? she asked McKinley with an angry gesture toward Russell. She had a thick Rhenish accent, which explained why the American had so much trouble understanding her.
Hes a friend. He speaks better German than I do, McKinley explained, rather in the manner of someone reassuring a foolish child.
She gave Russell another look, thought for a moment, then shrugged. Come through, she said shortly.
The living room was clean but almost bare. There were no comfortable chairs, only a couple of stools beside a small table and what looked like homemade cushions on the floor. A tattered but once-expensive rug occupied the center of the wooden floor. A girl of around five or six was sitting on it, leaning forward over a drawing she was working on. She didn't look up when they entered.
Thats Marietta, the woman said. She gets very absorbed in what shes doing, she added, as if she needed to explain the childs lack of reaction.
Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jurissen. She was younger than hed first thoughtaround 35, probablybut she looked both exhausted and malnourished. Only the eyes, a penetrating gray, seemed full of energy.
Please take the chairs, she said, but McKinley insisted that she take one. He remained standing, his lanky bulk seeming somewhat incongruous in the center of the room. Apparently realizing as much, he retreated to a wall.
Have you brought the money? Frau Jurissen asked, almost apologetically. This was not a woman who was used to poverty, Russell thought. This is the only work I can do and look after her all day.
McKinley produced his wallet, and counted what looked like several hundred Reichsmarks into her hand. She looked at the pile for a moment, and then abruptly folded the notes over, and placed them in the pocket of her housecoat. So, where shall I begin? she asked.
McKinley wasted no time. You said in your letter that you could not keep silent when childrens lives were at stake, he said, pronouncing each word with the utmost care. What made you think they were?
