Their appointment in Harley Street was at 11:00, and Zarah had booked a taxi for 10:00. Trafalgar Square was busy, but the cab then raced around Piccadilly and up Regent Street, delivering them to the doctors door with forty-five minutes to spare. A stern-looking receptionist showed them into the waiting room, which was full of highly polished wooden chairs. Paul found a few childrens comics among the society magazines, and went through one with Lothar, pointing out what was happening in the various pictures.
How did you find this doctor? Russell asked.
A friend of Jens at the Embassy here, she replied. He said this man was highly thought of. And he speaks a little German.
Little, as they eventually discovered, was the operative word, and Russell had to function as a full-time interpreter. Doctor Gordon McAllister was a tall ginger-haired man in his forties, with a rather gaunt face, a slight Scottish accent, and an almost apologetic smile. He seemed a nice man, and one who clearly liked children. Effi always claimed that doctors who specialized in womens problems were usually women-haters, but apparently the same logic did not apply to pediatricians.
His office was a bright, spacious room with windows overlooking the street. In addition to his desk, there were several comfortable chairs and a large wooden box full of childrens toys and books. So tell me about Lothar, he asked Zarah through Russell.
She started off nervously but grew more confident as she went on, thanks in large part to the doctors obvious involvement. She said that Lothar sometimes seemed uninterested in everything, that he didn't respond when people talked to him, that at other times he would seem to suddenly lose interest in whatever it was he was doing, and just stop. Hell be in the middle of eating, she said, and just leave the table and go and do something else. And he doesnt always seem to understand what Im telling him to do, she added.
Hes four, yes? the doctor asked.
And three months.
Can he recognize different animals? He walked over to the box and took out a tiger and a rabbit. Lothar, whats this? he asked in German, holding out the tiger.
A tiger.
And this?
A rabbit.
No problems there, then. How about colors? Can he recognize them?
He could. A red balloon, a blue sky, a yellow canary. Having done so, without warning, he walked across to the window and looked out.
The doctor asked Zarah about the birth, about Lothars eating habits, whether there was any history of problems in her or her husbands family. She answered each question, and, in a halting voice, volunteered the information that she had considered aborting Lothar before he was born. I cant help thinking theres a connection, she said, clearly close to tears.
Youre completely wrong about that, the doctor insisted, the moment Russell had translated her words. There is no possible connection.
Then what is it? she asked, wiping a tear away.
Does he get tired easily? Does he seem weakphysically weak, I mean? Can he lift things.
She thought about that. Jensmy husbandhe sometimes says that Lothar lacks strength in his fingers. He doesnt like carrying things. And yes, he does get tired.
The doctor leaned forward on his desk, fingers intertwined beneath his chin. I dont think there is anything seriously wrong with Lothar, he said. Or at least, nothing that cannot be corrected. There is no name for this, but it isnt uncommon. Essentially, he has a weaker link with the rest of the world than most people do, but everyone is different in this respecthes just a bit more different than the norm. And his link can be strengthened. What Lothar needshe ticked them off on his fingersis fresh air and exercise, really good, nutrient-rich foodfresh eggs, fresh fruit, fresh everythingand physical stimulation. Regular massages would help. Give and take gamesthe sort that involve instant physical reactions. And music. All these things stimulate the body, make it more responsive.
But theres nothing seriously wrong? Zarah asked.
Not in my judgment. No.
And he doesnt need any tests?
No.
She took a deep breath. Thank you, doctor. She reached inside her handbag for the neat package of pound notes.
You pay the receptionist, he said with a smile.
But not usually with cash, Russell thought, as they waited for the taxi which the receptionist had ordered. Zarah, who looked as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, was eager to get back to the Savoy, where she could telephone Jens. Its wonderful news, Russell told her, and received the warmest of smiles in return.
Once back at the hotel, they agreed to meet for lunch in an hour. Leaving Paul exploring the lobby, Russell retrieved
Heres the room key, he told Paul. Ill be back in half an hour or so.
Paul was looking at the book. Where are you taking that? he asked. I didn't know you had a nephew in England, he added suspiciously.
I dont, Russell admitted. Ill explain it all this afternoon.
He walked down to the Continental Bank, paid a years rent in cash for the safety deposit box, and was shown into a small room with a single upright chair and table. A clerk bought him a rectangular metal box and two keys, and told him to press the buzzer when he was finished. I already am, Russell said, placing
Theres more to the Nazis than meets the eye, Russell said.
I dont doubt it, the clerk replied gloomily.
Lunch was an altogether more cheerful affair than breakfast or the previous nights dinner, but 24 largely sleepless hours had taken their toll on Zarah. Im going to take a nap, she said. Well see you this evening.
Asked if there was anything he wanted to do, Paul suggested a walk down to Big Ben. I didn't see it properly in the dark, he explained.
They set off down the Strand, stopping in at Charing Cross to see the Southern trains and admire the Cross itself. After circling the Trafalgar Square ponds and climbing on a lion they marched down the Mall toward Buckingham Palace. The Kings out, Russell said, pointing out the lowered flag.
Kings are outdated, Paul told him.
They cut through to Parliament Square and ventured out onto Westminster Bridge, stopping in the middle to turn and admire Big Ben. You were going to tell me about that book, Paul said rather hesitantly, as if unsure how much he wanted to know.
A small voice in Russells head reminded him how many children had already denounced their parents to the authorities in Germany, and a whole host of other voices laughed out loud. And if he was so wrong about his own son, he told himself, then he probably deserved to be denounced.
He told Paul about the Wiesners: the familys need to emigrate, the fathers arrest, the certain confiscation of their savingsthe savings they would need to start a new life somewhere else.
The savings are in that book? Paul asked incredulously.
Valuable stamps, Russell told him. Hidden behind the stickers.
Paul looked surprised, impressed, and finally dubious. They collected the stamps? Like ordinary Germans?
They
Paul opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of whatever it was he was going to say. They paid you to bring them? he asked, as if he couldn't quite believe it.
No. I did it because I like them. Theyre nice people.
I see, Paul said, though he clearly didn't.
It was almost 3:30. Back in Parliament Square they joined the queue for a 24 bus, and managed to find seats upstairs for the short ride up Whitehall and Charing Cross Road. Solly Bernsteins office was two storeys above a
