Neukolln. Russell told her about Theresa Jurissen, about Marietta, about the KdF letter to clinic heads and what she had claimed was in it.
Why didn't you tell me? Effi asked, more surprised than angry.
Because youd have to tell Zarah, and Zarah would have to tell Jens, and Id have to explain where I got the information from. He looked her in the face. McKinleys dead, Effi. And he didn't commit suicide. He was murdered.
She took that in, looking, Russell thought, extraordinarily beautiful.
So why are you telling me now? she asked calmly.
He sighed. Because I hate keeping things from you. Because I owe it to Zarah. I dont know. Could you swear Zarah to secrecy, do you think?
Maybe. But in any case I dont think Jens would turn you in. Zarah would certainly kill him if he did. For my sake, of course, not yours.
Of course.
Butand I hate to say thisgiven how Zarah feels about you, shell want more than your word. So will he. Theyll want some sort of proof.
I dont blame them. Whens that appointment you mentioned?
Monday.
She should put it off.
How will that help?
He explained about McKinleys passport and Zembskis commission. On Tuesday I can pick up the letter and whatever else McKinley had.
Youre going to claim it using a bogus passport? Isnt that risky? What if they remember McKinley from when he handed it in?
He wouldn't have handed it inhed have posted it. Itll be okay.
Are you sure?
He laughed. No, of course not.
SUNDAY WAS ANOTHER COLD BRIGHT DAY. Russell picked his son up in Grunewald soon after 10:00, and headed for Potsdam on the Avus Speedway. From there they took the Leipzig road, driving southwest through Treuenbrietzen and over the hills to Wittenberg, stopping for an early lunch by the bridge across the Elbe. They reached Leipzig ninety minutes ahead of kickoff and did a quick spin round the town center, with its imposing eighteenth-century residences, myriad publishing houses, and enormous
He found it with twenty minutes to spare. They followed another father-son couple wearing Hertha colors through the turnstiles, and worked their way around to where the hundred or so others whod made the trip from Berlin were standing, behind one of the goals. The stadium was bigger than the Plumpe, and seemed almost full for this cup tie. Standing there waiting for the teams to come out, watching the flicker of matches being struck in the shadowed grandstand, Russell felt a sudden surge of sadness. Another time bubble, he thought.
The home crowd greeted their team with a hearty roar, but that was almost the last thing they had to cheer. The home team had one of those afternoons, doing everything but score on numerous occasions, before making one fatal mistake at the end. Paul was ecstatic, and quite unwilling to admit there was anything undeserved in Herthas victory. Its about goals, Dad, he said trenchantly, before Russell could suggest anything to the contrary. On the way out, Paul scanned the ground for a discarded program and finally found one. For Joachim, he said triumphantly.
Russell had thought about inviting Thomas and Joachim to join them, but had decided he wanted the time alone with his son. If Paul wanted to get something off his chest, he wouldn't do it with Thomas and Joachim in the car.
The decision bore fruit, though hardly in the way Russell had expected. It was dark by the time they left Leipzig, the road lit only by their own lights and the occasional passage of a vehicle in the opposite direction. On either side the darkness was only relieved by the dim lights of an occasional farm.
They had been driving about ten minutes when Paul broke the silence. Dad, I think you should move to England, he blurted out, as if he couldn't hold the thought in any longer.
Why? Russell asked, though he could guess the answer.
Well, you cant help being English, can you?
No, I cant.
But that wont help. I mean it doesnt help the Jews, does it?
No, Russell agreed. What made you think about this? he asked. Has something happened? Has someone said something? He half-expected to find that Paul had overheard a conversation between his mother and stepfather.
Not exactly, Paul replied. At the
Maybe, Russell said, for want of something better.
Wouldn't Effi go with you?
She might.
I really like her, you know.
I know you do. And Im glad.
I dont want you to go. I just. . . .
What?
I just dont want you to stay for my sake. I mean, Im twelve next month. Its not like Ill be a child for much longer.
I think you have a few more years yet.
Okay, but. . . .
I understand what youre saying. And I appreciate it. But I dont want you to worry about this. If a war comes Ill probably have to leavethere wont be any choice. But until then, well, I cant leave while were still in the Cup, can I?
AFTER DROPPING PAUL OFF, Russell found a bar off Hochmeisterplatz and sat for almost an hour nursing an expensive double whisky. His life seemed to be breaking up in slow motion, with no clear indication of where any of the pieces might land. Moving to England might seem like a sensible move, but it was sensible moves which had landed him in his current predicament. The peculiarity of his situation, he thought, might be a double-edged sword. It could be the death of him, or at least the death of those relationships which had made his life worth living for the last few years. There was no doubt about that. But was there also a chance that he could exploit that situation to save himself, and those relationships? Shchepkin, Kleist, and Trelawney-Smythe had no compunction about making use of him, and he felt none about making use of them. But could he pull it off? Was he still quick enough on his feet? And was he brave enough to find out?
Driving east along the Kudamm toward Effis, he realized he didn't know. But that, he told himself, the Wiesners uppermost in his mind, was another sign of the times. When the time bubbles burst, you got to find out all sorts of things about yourself that you probably didn't want to know. And maybe, if you were lucky, a few things that you did.
Arriving at Effis flat, he was almost bundled into the kitchen by Effi herself. Zarahs here, she whispered. Ive told her about the letter to the asylum directors, but nothing about you knowing where it is now. Or the passport. Okay?
Okay, Russell agreed.
Lothar was there too, sitting on the sofa with his mother and a picture book.
You remember Uncle John? Effi asked him.
