Better and better, the Silesian said dryly. He opened a drawer, pulled out a magnifying glass, and studied the photograph. Looks simple enough.
Youll do it?
Zembski leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak with apprehension. Why not?
How much?
Ah. That depends. Whats it for? I dont want details, he added hurriedly, just some assurance that it wont end up on a Gestapo desk.
I need it to recover some papers. For a story.
Not a Fuhrer-friendly story?
No.
Then Ill give you a discount for meaning well. But itll still cost you a hundred Reichsmarks.
Fair enough.
Cash.
Right.
Ill take the picture now then, Zembski said, maneuvering his bulk out of the confined space and through the door into the studio. A plain background, he muttered out loud as he studied the original photograph. Thisll do, he said, pushing a screen against a wall and placing a stool in front of it.
Russell sat on it.
Zembski lifted his camera, tripod and all, and placed it in position. After feeding in a new film, he squinted through the lens. Try and look like an American, he ordered.
How the hell do I do that? Russell asked.
Look optimistic.
Ill try. He did.
I said optimistic, not doe-eyed.
Russell grinned, and the shutter clicked.
Lets try a serious one, Zembski ordered.
Russell pursed his lips.
The shutter clicked again. And again. And several more times. Thatll do, the Silesian said at last. Ill have it for you on Monday.
Thanks. Russell stood up. One other thing. You dont by any chance know of a good place to pick up a secondhand car?
Zembski dida cousin in Wedding owned a garage which often had cars to sell. Tell him I sent you, he said, after giving Russell directions, and you may get another discount. We Silesians are all heart, he added, chins wobbling with merriment.
Russell walked the short distance back to the U-bahn, then changed his mind and took a seat in the shelter by the tram stop. Gazing back down the brightly lit Berlinerstrasse toward Zembskis studio, he wondered whether hed just crossed a very dangerous line. No, he reassured himself, all hed done was commission a false passport. He would cross the line when he made use of it.
AFTER TEACHING THE WIESNER girls the next morning, Russell headed across town in search of Zembskis cousin. He found the garage on one of Weddings back streets, sandwiched between a brewery and the back wall of a locomotive depot, about half a kilometer from the Lehrter Station. Zembskis cousin Hunder was also a large man, and looked a lot fitter than Zembski. He seemed to have half a dozen young men working for him, most of them barely beyond school age.
The cars for sale were lined around the back. There were four of them: a Hanomag, an Opel, a Hansa-Lloyd, and another Opel. Any color you want as long as its black, Russell murmured.
We can re-spray, Hunder told him.
No, blacks good, Russell said. The more anonymous the better, he thought. How much are they? he asked.
Hunder listed the prices. Plus a ten percent discount for a friend of my cousin, he added. And a full tank. And a months guarantee.
The larger Hansa-Lloyd looked elegant, but was way out of Russells monetary reach. And he had never liked the look of Opels.
Can I take the Hanomag out for a drive? he asked.
You do know how? Hunder inquired.
Yes. He had driven lorries in the War, and much later he and Ilse had actually owned a car, an early Ford, which had died ignominiously on the road to Potsdam soon after their marriage met a similar fate.
He climbed into the driving-seat, waved the nervous-looking Hunder a cheerful goodbye, and turned out of the garage yard. It felt strange after all those years, but straightforward enough. He drove up past the sprawling Lehrter goods yards, back through the center of Moabit, and up Invalidenstrasse. The car was a bit shabby inside, but it handled well, and the engine sounded smooth enough.
He stopped by the side of the Humboldt canal basin and wormed his way under the chassis. There was a bit of rust, but not too much. No sign of leakages, and nothing seemed about to fall off. Brushing himself down, he walked around the vehicle. The engine compartment looked efficient enough. The tires would need replacing, but not immediately. The lights worked. It wasnt exactly an Austro-Daimler, but it would have to do.
He drove back to the garage and told Hunder hed take it. As he wrote out the check, he reminded himself how much hed be saving on tram and train tickets.
It was still early afternoon as he drove home, and the streets, with the exception of Potsdamerplatz, were relatively quiet. He parked in the courtyard, and borrowed a bucket, sponge, and brush from an excited Frau Heidegger. She watched from the step as he washed the outside and cleaned the inside, her face full of anticipation. A quick drive, he offered, and she needed no second bidding. He took them through Hallesches Tor and up to Viktoria Park, listening carefully for any sign that the engine was bothered by the gradient. There was none. I havent been up here for years, Frau Heidegger exclaimed, peering through the windshield at the Berlin panorama as they coasted back down the hill.
Effi was just as excited a couple of hours later. Her anger at his late arrival evaporated the moment she saw the car. Teach me to drive, she insisted.
Russell knew that both her father and ex-husband had refused to teach her, the first because he feared for his car, the second because he feared for his social reputation. Women were not encouraged to drive in the new Germany. Okay, he agreed, but not tonight, he added, as she made for the drivers seat.
It was a ten-minute drive to the Conways modern apartment block in Wilmersdorf, and the Hanomag looked somewhat overawed by the other cars parked outside. Dont worry, Effi said, patting its hood. We need a name, she told Russell. Something old and reliable. How about Hindenburg?
Hes dead, Russell objected.
I suppose so. How about Mother?
Mine isnt reliable.
Oh all right. Ill think about it.
They were the last to arrive. Phyllis Conway was still putting the children to bed, leaving Doug to dispense the drinks. He introduced Russell and Effi to the other three couples, two of whomthe Neumaiers and the Auerswere German. Hans Neumaier worked in banking, and his wife looked after their children. Rolf and Freya Auer owned an art gallery. Conways replacement, Martin Unsworth, and his wife Fay made up the third couple. Everyone present, Russell reckoned, either was approaching, was enjoying or had recently departed their thirties. Hans Neumaier was probably the oldest, Fay Unsworth the youngest.
Effi disappeared to read the children a bedtime story, leaving Russell and Doug Conway alone by the drinks table. I asked the Wiesners, Conway told him. I went out to see them. He shook his head. They were pleased to be asked, I think, but they wouldn't come. Dont want to risk drawing attention to themselves while theyre waiting for their visas, I suppose. They speak highly of you, by the way.
Is there nothing you can do to speed up their visas?
Nothing. Ive tried, believe me. Im beginning to think that someone in the system doesnt like them.
