in. They could use him as a human mailbox, with Kleist and Trelawney-Smythe as the sorters.
They might be just making it up as they went along. His unusual situation made him potentially useful, and they were still looking for a way to realize that potential. That would explain the articles and oral reportsa sort of halfway house to prepare him for a truly clandestine life. There was no way of knowing. Russell leaned back in his chair, remembering the remark of a Middlesex Regiment officer in 1918. Intelligence services, the man had said, are prone to looking up their own arses and wondering why its dark.
SOON AFTER 10:00 PM the train reached Breslau, the destination of most passengers. As they filtered out through the dimly lit exit, many of the remaining passengers took the chance to stretch their legs on the snow-strewn platform. Russell walked to the back of the train and watched a busy little shunter detach four saloons and replace them with three sleepers. It was really cold now, and the orange glow from the engines firebox made it seem more so.
He walked back up the platform, arms clasped tightly across his chest. Cold, eh, a young soldier said, stamping his feet and taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He was only about eighteen, and seemed to have a summer uniform on.
As Russell nodded his agreement a whistle sounded the all aboard.
Walking up the train, he reclaimed his seat in an almost empty carriage. The sleeping car attendants would be rushed off their feet for the next quarter of an hour, and he wasnt ready for sleep in any case. As the train pulled out of the station the ceiling lights were extinguished, allowing him a view through the window of flat meadows stretching north toward a distant line of yellow lights. The Oder River, likely as not.
Hoping for some conversation he revisited the restaurant car, but the only customers were a middle-aged German couple deep in the throes of an argument. The barman sold him a Goldwasser, but made it abundantly clear he was through talking for the day. Around 11:30 Russell reluctantly worked his way back down the train to the sleeping cars. The attendant showed him to his berth, and generously pointed out that the one above was unoccupied. He could take his pick.
Russell tossed his bag on the upper bunk, used the bathroom, and climbed half-dressed into the lower bunk. He would have a bath when he reached his hotel, he thought. It was an expensive one, so he didn't think there would be any problem with hot water.
As usual, he couldn't sleep. He lay there, feeling the sway of the train, listening to the click of the wheels on the rail joints, thinking about Effi. She was younger than him, eight years younger. Maybe peoples expectations shifted after a certain age, which hed reached and she hadn't. Was that why they were still living apart? Why had neither of them ever mentioned marriage? Was he afraid of something? He didn't think so. But then, what was the point of turning their lives upside-down when the Fuhrer was about to do it for them?
SHORTLY AFTER 8:00 IN THE MORNING he was standing, yawning, on one of Cracow Plaszow stations snow-covered platforms. After eventually getting to sleep, he had twice been roused for border inspections, and could hardly have felt worse if hed been awake all night.
He started toward the exit, and almost went over on a patch of ice. Further up the platform a line of young railway employees were working their way toward him, breath pumping, shoveling snow and noisily digging at the ice beneath with their spades. The sky above them seemed heavy with future snowfalls.
His hotel was on the other side of Cracows old town, some three miles away. He found a taxi outside the station, and a taxi-driver who wanted to practice his English. He had a cousin in Chicago, he said, but he wanted to go to Texas and work in the oil industry. That was where the future was.
As they drove north through the Jewish quarter Russell noticed an image of the Marx Brothers adorning a cinema on Starowi?lna Street. The name of the film was in Polish, but his drivers English failed him. He asked again at the Hotel Francuski reception, and received a confident answer from a young man in a very shiny suit. The film, which had only just opened, was called Broth of the Bird.
His room was on the third floor, looking out on Pijakska Street, which was full of well-insulated, purposeful walkers, presumably on their way to work. A church stood just across the way, the beauty of its rococo facade still visible beneath the clinging snow.
The room itself was large, high-ceilinged and well-furnished. The bed gave without sagging; the two-person sofa was almost luxurious. The small table and upright chair by the window were custom-made for the visiting journalist. There was a spacious wardrobe for hanging his clothes. The lights all worked, both here and in the adjoining bathroom, which seemed almost as big. The water ran hot in the spacious four-legged bath, and Russell lay soaking until he realized he was falling asleep.
After a shave and change of clothes he ventured out again. As he had expected, it was snowing, large flakes of the stuff floating down in dense profusion. Following the receptionists directions, Russell turned right outside the door, and right again opposite the church, into ?w Jana Street. Following this south across two intersections he reached the Rynek Glowny, Europes largest market square. The center of the huge expanse was occupied by a Gothic hall, but Russells eyes were instantly drawn to his left and the loveliest church he had ever seen. Two asymmetrical towers soared skyward through the curtain of snow, one climaxing in a flurry of spires, the other, slightly less high, with a small renaissance dome. Both were stacked with windows, like a medieval skyscraper.
For several minutes he stood there entranced, until the cold in his feet and a hunger for coffee drove him into one of the cafes that lined the square. Two cups and a roll packed with thick slices of bacon later he felt ready to face a day of work. The cafe might have been half-empty, but all the customers were Germanys Neighbours. He introduced himself to one young Polish couple and took it from there. For the next few hours he worked his way round the cafes and bars of the old town, asking questions.
Most of those he approached spoke some English or some German, and he didn't get many refusals. His own Englishness usually got him off to a favorable start, since many of his interviewees chose to believe that he had a personal line to Neville Chamberlain. Would England fight for Poland? they all asked. And when Russell expressed a sliver of doubt as to whether she would, they couldn't believe it. But you fought for Belgium! several of them said indignantly.
There was virtual unanimity about Polands situation. Germany was a menace, the Soviets were a menace: It was like choosing between cholera and the Black Death. What did they think about the German request for an extra-territorial road across the corridor? They could whistle. Would they fight for German Danzig? Every last stone. Would they win? He must be joking.
He couldn't be certain of course, but the few people who refused him all looked Jewish. A shadow dropped over their eyes when he introduced himself, a hunted look on their faces as they backed away, pleading lack of time or some other excuse. As if he were an advance guard for the Nazis, his very presence in Cracow a harbinger of disaster.
The snow kept falling. He ate an omelette for lunch in one of the Rynek Glowny cafes, and then trudged up and down the main shopping streets in search of a present for Effi. He half-expected Shchepkin to suddenly appear at his shoulder, but there was no sign of him or of anyone who seemed like one of his associates. As far as Russell could tell, no one was tracking his footsteps in the snow.
After slipping on some icy cobbles and being almost run over by a tram he decided a rest was in order and retreated to his hotel for a nap. It was 7:00 by the time he woke, and he felt hungry again. A new receptionist recommended a restaurant on Starowi?lna Street, which turned out to be only a few doors from the cinema showing the Marx Brothers movie. It was too good an invitation to miss. After partaking of a wonderful
Inside the cinema it was hot, noisy, and packed. Surveying the audience before the lights went down, Russell guessed that at least half of the people there were Jewish. He felt cheered by the fact that this could still seem normal, even in a country as prone to anti-Semitism as Poland. He wished Ruth and Marthe were there with him. And Albert. He couldn't remember ever seeing Albert laugh.
The newsreel was in Polish, but Russell got the gist. The first item featured a visit to Warsaw by the Hungarian Foreign Minister, and no doubt claimed that he and Colonel Beck had discussed matters of mutual importance, without spelling out what everyone knew these werechoosing their cuts of Czechoslovakia once the Germans had delivered the body. The second item concerned Danzig, with much piling of sandbags round the Polish
