The train jerked into motion. A momentary panic flitted across her face, followed by a look that Russell would long rememberone that blended accusation, incomprehension, and the sort of grief that no fiveyear-old should have to bear.
As the train pulled away a tiny hand poked out through the window and waved.
Im sorry, Russell murmured.
Another hand grasped his arm. The Truppfuhrers. You, English. Come with us.
He was ushered down the platform in the Sturmfuhrers wake. Most of the mothers and fathers were still focussed on the disappearing train, their eyes clinging to the red taillight, the last flicker of family. They had sent their children away. To save their lives, they had turned them into orphans.
One woman, her eyes closed, was kneeling in the snow, a low keening noise rising up from inside her. The sound stayed with Russell as he was led out of the station. The sound of a heart caving in.
In the goods yard the Truppfuhrer pushed him toward a car. My hotels just across the road, Russell protested.
We will collect your papers, the Sturmfuhrer said.
As they bundled him into a car, it occurred to Russell that Shchepkins envelope was still sitting on his nightstand.
DANZIG WAS WAKING UP as they drove back toward the city center, shopkeepers clearing the nights snow off their patches of sidewalk. Russell kept his eyes on where they were going, hoping to God it wasnt some SA barracks out of humanitys hearing range. As they pulled up outside an official police station on Hunde-Gasse he managed to suppress an audible sigh of relief.
The Truppfuhrer pulled him out of the car and pushed him violently toward the entrance doors. Russell slipped in the snow and fell up the steps, catching a shin on one of the edges. There was no time to check the wound, thoughthe Truppfuhrer was already propelling him forward.
Inside, a uniformed police officer was cradling a steaming cup of coffee. He looked up without much interest, sighed, and reached for the duty book. Name?
Russell told him. Im English, he added.
The man was not impressed. We all have to come from somewhere. Now empty your pockets.
Russell did as he was told. Whos in charge here? he asked. The police or the SA?
The policeman gave him a contemptuous look. Take a guess, he suggested.
Russell felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. I want to speak to the British Consulate, he said.
No need for that, the Truppfuhrer said behind him. Now whats your hotel name and room number? Armed with this information, he went back out through the doors. Russell had a glimpse of gray light in the eastern sky.
He tried pleading with the duty officer, and received a shrug for his pains. A younger policeman was summoned to take him downstairs, where two rows of cells lay on either side of a dimly lit corridor. They had brick walls and tiled floors, black up to waist level, white above. Only a splash of blood was needed to exhaust the Nazi palate.
Russell slumped to the floor in his cell, his back against the far wall. No need to feel frightened, he told himself. They wouldn't do any permanent damage to a foreign journalist.
They would if they thought he was a spy. What had Shchepkin put in the damn envelope? If Russells past experience with the NKVD was anything to go by, there was an institutional reluctance to spell anything out which verged on paranoia. And they wouldn't want to leave him with anything he might conceivably use against them.
All of which was good news.
But what language was the damn letter written in? If it was in Russian, or if rubles were mentioned, that would be enough for goons like the Truppfuhrer.
He told himself to calm down. He had talked himself out of worse situations than this.
His shin was oozing blood, but didn't look too bad. His stomach felt queasy, though whether from hunger or fear was hard to tell. Both, probably.
It felt like more than an hour had passed when he heard feet on the stairs. Booted feet, and several of them.
The sliding on his door window clanged open and clanged shut again. The boots moved on, another clang, but this time a door swung open. A voice protesteda voice Russell thought he recognizedthe Jew whod tried to protect his wife. The voice rose, and was cut off, leaving echoes inside Russells head. What had cut it off? A fist? A knee? A cosh? A door slammed shut.
Silence reigned, a heavy silence which offered no reassurance. Eventually a door scraped open, a remark drew laughter, and the boots were back in the corridor. Russell felt his breath catch as they headed his way, but they clattered on past and up the stairs, leaving him staring at his shaking hands. Pressing his ear to the door he could hear no groans of pain, only the stillness of unconsciousness or death.
Time went by. Hed rushed out of the hotel without his watch, and when a tray of food was eventually shoved through his hatch he wondered if it was lunch or supper. The boots never came back, and with each hour that passed he found himself feeling a little more optimistic. When the door finally opened his stomach lurched, but it was only the policeman whod brought him down.
This way, Herr Russell, the man said, nodding toward the stairs.
They beat people up in the cells, Russell told himself. Upstairs had to be better.
Two corridors and two flights of stairs later, he was ushered through a door labelled KRIMINALINSPEKTOR TESMER. The man himself had greased black hair, blue eyes, thin lips, and a bad case of five oclock shadow. Please sit, he told Russell.
He took one last look at the Englishmans passport, and then passed it across the desk with the journalists accreditation. There was no sign of Shchepkins envelope.
Everything is satisfactory, Tesmer said with a sudden smile. And Im sorry it has taken so long.
Russell reached for his documents. I can go? he asked, trying not to sound too relieved.
Just one question.
Yes? There was no life behind the eyes, Russell thought. This was a man to be careful with.
Why did you come to Danzig, Herr Russell? To write a story about the Jewish children?
No. I had no idea a
Then why did you come?
Why indeed. Because hed felt drawn to the place, the way a good journalist was always drawn to a story that mattered. A city in thrall to thugs and fools, and headed for disaster for precisely that reason. Danzig was Europe writ small. It was a story for everyone.
Almost everyone.
Stamps, he said, suddenly remembering a conversation hed overhead in the Cafe Weitzke. The citys German and Polish post offices were both putting out stamps to commemorate centuries-old victories over each other. I do occasional pieces for philately journals, and the two post offices here are bringing out some interesting new issues. Im hoping to interview the postmasters tomorrow.
Tesmer looked disappointed, like a fisherman realizing that this catch was too small to eat. Enjoy your stay, he said curtly.
ONCE OUTSIDE, RUSSELL DISCOVERED it was almost ten oclock. A bar supplied him with a sandwich and a much-needed drink, and he trudged back to his hotel through mostly empty streets. Shchepkins envelope was still lying where hed left it.
It had been opened, though. Russell took out the single sheet and read it. They wanted four articles of between 1,200 and 1,500 words, delivered at fortnightly intervals, beginning in mid-January. The money was more generous than hed expectedas much as an ordinary Soviet worker earned over a five-year-plan. The thought crossed his mind that a car would transform his Saturdays with Paul.
The letter was in German, the promised fee in Reichsmarks. There was nothing to say where the offer came from or what the articles would be about. God bless the NKVD, Russell murmured to himself.
