Jens led the way, chatting and laughing with the officials as if they were old friends. Zarahs large suitcase was waved through unopened, as was Pauls rucksack. Russells suitcase, however, they wanted to inspect.
He opened it up and watched, heart in mouth, while the customs official ran his hands through the clothes and came to the books. He looked at these one by one, ignoring those in English and settling on
Its for a nephew in England, Russell explained, suddenly conscious that Paul was looking at the book with some surprise. Dont say anything, he silently pleaded, and Paul, catching his eye, seemed to understand.
The man put it back with the others and closed the suitcase. Enjoy your journey, he said.
Once Jens and Zarah had said their goodbyes, the four of them walked out across the tarmac to the silver aeroplane. It had a stubby nose, three enginesone at the front, one on either wingand windows like rectangular portholes. LUFTHANSA was stenciled on the side, a large swastika painted on the tailfin. A short flight of steps took them up to the door, and into a vestibule behind the passenger cabin, where their cases were stowed. In the cabin itself there were five leather-covered seats on each side of the carpeted aisle, each with a high headrest. Theirs were the four at the rear, Russell sitting behind Paul, Zarah behind Lothar.
The other passengers came aboard: a youngish English couple whom Russell had never seen before and four single men, all of whom looked like wealthy businessmen of one sort or another. Judging from their clothes one was English, three German.
A mail truck drew up beside the aeroplane. The driver jumped down, opened the rear door, and dragged three sacks marked
We used these against the communists in Spain, Paul said, leaning across the gangway to make himself heard above the rising roar of the engines. They were one of the reasons we won.
Russell nodded. A discussion with his son about the Spanish Civil War seemed overdue, but this was hardly the place. He wondered if Paul had forgotten that his parents had both been communists, or just assumed that theyd seen the error of their ways.
The pilot and co-pilot appeared, introducing themselves with bows and handshakes as they walked down the aisle to their cabin. The stewardess followed in their tracks, making sure that everyone had fastened their leather safety belts. She was a tall, handsome-looking blond of about nineteen with a marked Bavarian accent. A predictable ambassador for Hitlers Germany.
Out on the tarmac a man began waving the plane forward, and the pilot set them in motion, bumping across the concrete surface toward the end of the runway. There was no pause when they reached it, just a surge of the engines and a swift acceleration. Through the gap between seat and wall, Russell could see Pauls ecstatic face pressed to the window. On the other side of the aisle, Zarahs eyes were closed in fright.
Seconds later, Berlin was spreading out below them: the tangle of lines leading south from Anhalter and Potsdamer stations, the suburbs of Schonefeld, Wilmersdorf, Grunewald. Theres my school! Paul almost shouted. And theres the Funkturm, and the Olympic Stadium!
Soon the wide sheet of the Havelsee was receding behind them, the villages, fields, and forests of the northern plain laid out below. They were about a mile up, Russell reckoned, high enough to make anything look beautiful. From this sort of height a
They flew west, over the wide traffic-filled Elbe and the sprawling city of Hannover, crossing into Dutch airspace soon after three oclock. Rotterdam appeared beneath the starboard wing, the channels of the sea-bound Rhineor whatever the Dutch called itbeneath the other. As they crossed the North Sea coast the plane was rocked by turbulence, causing Zarah to clutch the handrests and Paul to give his father a worried look. Russell gave him a reassuring smile. Lothar, he noticed, seemed unconcerned.
The turbulence lasted through most of the sea crossing, and the serene sea below them seemed almost an insult. Looking down at one Hook of Holland-bound steamer Russell felt a hint of regret that theyd traveled by airnot for the lack of comfort, but for the lack of romance. He remembered his first peacetime trip to the Continentthe first few had been on troopships during the Warthe train journey through Kents greenery, the Ostend ferry with its bright red funnels, the strange train waiting in the foreign station, the sense of striking out into the unknown. He hadn't been on a plane for the better part of ten years, but he hadn't missed them.
But Paul was having the time of his life. Can you see England yet? he asked his father.
Yes, Russell realized. The Thanet coast was below him. A large town. Margate probably, or Ramsgate. Places hed never been. And within minutes, or so it seemed, the southeastern suburbs of London were stretching beneath them in the afternoon sun, mile upon mile of neat little houses in a random mesh of roads and railways.
The pilot brought the plane down on the Croydon runway with only the slightest of jolts. The entry formalities were just that, and the car Jens had ordered was waiting at the terminal doors. They drove up the Brighton road, slowed by the busy late afternoon traffic. Paul marveled at the double-decker buses, but was more astonished by the paucity of buildings reaching above two storeys. It was only after Brixton that third, fourth, and fifth floors were grudgingly added.
Russell asked the driver to take them across Westminster Bridge, and was rewarded by the singular sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament aglow in the light of the setting sun. As they drove up Whitehall he pointed out Downing Street and the Horseguards; as they swung round Trafalgar Square, Nelson on his lonely column. The Strand seemed choked with buses, but they finally arrived at the Savoy to find that their fifth-floor rooms overlooked the Thames.
They must have cost a fortune, Russell thought. He and Paul looked out of the window at the barges on the tide-swollen river, the electric trains of the Southern Railway moving in and out of Charing Cross Station. Away to their left the piles of the new Waterloo Bridge stuck out of the water like temple remains. This is good, Paul said, with the air of someone truly satisfied.
Russell got an outside line and phoned his London agent Solly Bernstein, hoping to catch him before he went home. Im just on my way out of the door, Bernstein told him. What the hell are you doing in London?
Hoping to see you. Can you squeeze me in tomorrow afternoon?
Ah, just this once. Four oclock?
Fine.
Russell hung up and explained the call to Paul. Im hungry, was the response.
They ate with Zarah and Lothar in the hotel restaurant. The food was excellent, but Zarah, clearly anxious about the next morning, just picked at her plate. When she and Lothar wished them goodnight and retired to their room, Russell and his son took a stroll down to the river, and along the Embankment toward the Houses of Parliament. Opposite County Hall they stopped and leaned against the parapet, the high tide slurping against the wall below. Pedestrians and buses were still crowding Westminster Bridge, long chains of lighted carriages rumbling out of Charing Cross. A line of laden coal barges headed downstream, dark silhouettes against the glittering water. Some lines of Eliot slipped across his brain:
He had hated
Its been a long day, he told Paul. Time for bed.
ZARAH LOOKED EXHAUSTED OVER breakfast next morning, as if shed hardly slept. Lothar, by contrast, seemed more animated than usual. Paul, asked by his father for an opinion of Zarahs son, had shrugged and said Hes just a bit quiet, thats all.
Reception suggested a bank on the Strand which offered currency exchange and a probable safety deposit service, and Russell left Paul examining the huge model of the
