Her heels were higher than on the previous day, the seams of her stockings straight as arrows. The fur coat looked expensive. It doesnt look like theyre getting ready for a war, she said, as their cab motored down Unter den Linden.
The morgue was ready for them. McKinleys body was laid out on a stretcher in the middle of the spacious cold storeroom. She marched confidently forward, heels clicking on the polished floor, then suddenly faltered and looked back at Russell. He came forward, took her arm, and together they advanced on the stretcher.
A white sheet concealed whatever injuries her brother had suffered below the neck. The familiar shock of dark hair had been burned away at the front, and the entire left side of his face looked blackened beneath the morticians make-up. The eyes looked as though theyd been re-inserted in their sockets; one was not quite closed, and presumably never would be again. The bottom lip had been sewn back on, probably after McKinley had bitten clean through it. An angry red-brown wound extended around the Americans neck above the uppermost edge of sheet, causing Russell to wonder whether he had been decapitated.
Its him, Eleanor said in a voice quivering with control. She signed the necessary documentation on the small table by the door and left the room without a backward glance. During the first part of their ride back to the Adlon she sat in silence, staring out of the window, an angry expression on her face. As they crossed over Friedrichstrasse she asked Russell how long hed lived in Berlin, but hardly listened to his answer.
Come up, she said when they reached the lobby, and gave him a quick glance to make sure he hadn't read anything into the invitation.
Her suite was modest, but a suite just the same. An open suitcase sat on the bed, half-filled with clothes, surrounded by bits and pieces. Ill only be a minute, she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.
An item on the bed had already caught Russells eyeone of the small gray canvas bags that the Kripo used for storing personal effects.
There was no sound from the bathroom. Now or never, he told himself.
He took one stride to the bed, loosened the string, and looked inside the bag. It was almost empty. He poured the contents onto the bed and sorted through them with his fingers. A reporters notebookalmost empty. German notesalmost 300 Reichsmarks worth. McKinleys press accreditation. His passport.
The toilet flushed.
Russell slipped the passport into his pocket, rammed the rest back into the bag, tightened the string, and stepped hastily away from the bed.
She came out of the bathroom, looked at the mess on the bed, staring, or so it seemed to Russell, straight at the bag. She reached down, picked it up . . . and placed it in the suitcase. I thought wed eat here, she said.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, they were being seated in the hotel restaurant. Having locked her brother away in some sort of emotional box, she chatted happily about America, her dog, the casting of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett OHara in the new film of
After they had eaten he watched her look around the room, and tried to see it through her eyes: a crowd of smart people, most of the women fashionably dressed, many of the men in perfectly tailored uniforms. Eating good food, drinking fine wines. Just like home.
Do you think therell be a war? she asked abruptly.
Probably, he said.
But what could they gain from one? she asked, genuinely puzzled. I mean, you can see how prosperous the country is, how content. Why risk all that?
Russell had no wish to talk politics with her. He shrugged agreement with her bewilderment and asked how the flight across the Atlantic had been.
Awful, she said. So noisy, though I got used to that after a while. But its a horrible feeling, being over the middle of the ocean and knowing that theres no help for thousands of miles.
Are you going back the same way?
Oh no. It was Daddy who insisted I come that way. He thought it was important that I got here quickly, though I cant imagine why. No, Im going back by ship. From Hamburg. My train leaves at three, she added, checking her watch. Will you take me to the station?
Of course.
Upstairs he watched her cram her remaining possessions into the suitcase, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when she asked him to close it for her. A taxi took them to the Lehrter Bahnhof, where the D-Zug express was already waiting in its platform, car attendants hovering at each door.
Thank you for your help, she said, holding out a hand.
Im sorry about the circumstances, Russell said.
Yes, she agreed, but more in exasperation than sadness. As he turned away she was reaching for her cigarettes.
Near the front of the train three porters were manhandling a coffin into the baggage car. Russell paused in his stride, and watched as they set it down with a thump by the far wall. Show some respect, he felt like saying, but what was the point? He walked on, climbing the steps to the Stadtbahn platforms which hung above the mainline stations throat. A train rattled in almost instantly, and three minutes later he was burrowing down to the U-bahn platforms at Friedrichstrasse. He read an abandoned
How many Germans, Russell wondered, were itching to dance the Lambeth Walk?
Not the family in Zembskis studio, that was certain. They were there to have their portrait taken, the father in SA uniform, the wife in her church best, the three blond daughters all in pigtails, wearing freshly ironed BdM uniforms. Nazi heaven.
Russell watched as the big Silesian lumbered around, checking the lighting and the arrangement of the fake living room setting. Finally he was satisfied. Smile, he said, and clicked the shutter. One more, he said, and smile this time. The wife did; the girls tried, but the father was committed to looking stern.
Russell wondered what was going through Zembskis mind at moments like this. He had only known the Silesian for a few years, but hed heard of him long before that. In the German communist circles which he and Ilse had once frequented, Zembski had been known as a reliable source for all sorts of photographic services, and strongly rumored to be a key member of the Pass-Apparat, the Berlin-based Comintern factory for forged passports and other documents. Russell had never admitted his knowledge of Zembskis past. But it was one of the reasons why he used him for his photographic needs. That and the fact that he liked the man. And his low prices.
He watched as Zembski ushered the family out into the street with promises of prints by the weekend. Closing the door behind them he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Is smiling so hard? he asked rhetorically. But of course, hell love it. I only hope the wife doesnt get beaten to a pulp for looking happy. He walked across to the arc lights and turned them off. And what can I do for you, Mister Russell?
Russell nodded toward the small office which adjoined the studio.
Zembski looked at him, shrugged, and gestured him in. Two chairs were squeezed in on either side of a desk. I hope its pornography rather than politics, he said once they were inside. Though these days its hard to tell the difference.
Russell showed him McKinleys passport. I need my photograph in this. I was hoping youd either do it for me or teach me how to do it myself.
Zembski looked less than happy. What makes you think Id know?
I was in the Party myself once.
Zembskis eyebrows shot up. Ah. A lots changed since then, my friend.
Yes, but theyre probably still using the same glue on passports. And you probably remember which remover to use.
Zembski nodded. Not the sort of thing you forget. He studied McKinleys passport. Who is he?
Was. Hes the American journalist who jumped in front of a train at Zoo Station last weekend. Allegedly jumped.
