Zoo Station

demurred, unwilling to sacrifice half an hour of his sons company.

As it was, Paul sat mostly in silence as they drove west, gazing out of the window at his home city. It seems . . . well, strange, he said, as they turned into his road. After being there, the idea of a war against England seems . . . it seems silly.

It is, Russell agreed. But coming nevertheless. And, in one way, the sooner the better. Say it lasted four years, like the last one. Assuming they stuck to the current call-up at eighteen, Paul would be drafted in March 1945. For the war to be over by then, it had to get started early in 1941.

No need to worry, Russell told himself. Hitler wouldn't be able to wait that long.

Blue Scarf

AFTER SPENDING THE NIGHT with Effi, Russell drove her out to the studio for an early start. She was pleased but not surprised by Dr. McAllisters diagnosisI said there was nothing wrong with him!but despondent about Mother. The director was a mechanic; her co-stars all thought, wrongly, that they were Gods gift to acting; the on-set adviser from the Propaganda Ministry kept trying to clarify the films social role by inserting lines that even a baboon would have trouble misunderstanding. I suppose I should be grateful, she said, as they drove in through the studio gates: Ill probably go down in history as one of Germanys great comediennes.

Afterward, Russell drove to Zoo Station, where he bought breakfast and a paper. Nothing unusual seemed to have happened during his time in England. The widening of the Kiel Canal had been decreed: It obviously wasnt big enough for the Bismarck. Hitler had opened the International Motor Show just down the road, and unveiled a model of the new peoples car. For 950 marksabout 50 British poundsthe average German would get a small five-seater, with deliveries to begin in about fifteen months time. Having made an appearance at this birth, the Fuhrer had proceeded to the funeral of some obscure Carinthian Gauleiterthe man had probably held his hand when the bullets started flying in 1923. Hed certainly been given all the Nazi trimmings: swastikas everywhere, black banners with runic emblems, lines of flaming pylons to light his way across the Hesperus.

Back at Neuenburgerstrasse, Frau Heidegger was waiting to ply Russell with coffee. She was elated by his impression of British unreadiness for war, which she thought, rather perceptively, both lessened the chance of war and increased the chance of German success if there was one. Before retiring upstairs to work, Russell phoned Unsworth at the British Embassy. He was told that Conway had been in touch, and that representations were being made in the appropriate quarters. Russell thought about visiting the Wiesners but decided against it. He had nothing really to tell them, and instinctively felt that it was safer to limit his visits to the scheduled lessons.

He spent most of the next 48 hours working in his room, writing the fourth Pravda article, which he planned to deliver in Posen that weekend, and sketching out a piece on artists and entertainers for the Ordinary Germans series. His only trip out was to the Greiner Works in Wedding, one of the Reichs major production centers for military vehicles. Expecting suspicion and probable refusals, he went straight to the Labor Front office, and was almost laughably surprised by the warm welcome he received. Yes, of course the German worker was torn between his love of peace and his desire to arm the Fatherland against its foes. What human being would not be? And of course Herr Russell could talk to the workers about their feelings. The rest of the world should be given every chance to understand both the German hunger for peace and the nations determination to defend its rights and its people.

After this, talking to several groups of workers in the canteen proved something of an anti-climax. Most were understandably reticent, and those prepared to speak their minds had nothing surprising to say. It was a job, that was all. As usual, the pay was bad, the hours too long, management more of a hindrance than a help. The Labor Front at least listened, if only to ward off potential trouble. Open discussions were infinitely preferable to either noncooperationslow working, mostlyor the sort of covert resistance that could lead to sabotage. Reading between the lines and facial expressions of the men to whom he spoke, Russell decided that the level of noncooperation was probably significant without seriously affecting production levels or quality, and that the amount of real resistance was negligible. And when war came, he guessed, both would decrease.

Wednesday morning, he called in at the embassy on his way to the Wiesners. The moment he saw Unsworths face he knew what had happened. Hes dead, isnt he?

The official line is that he hanged himself, Unsworth said. Im sorry.

Russell sat down. A wave of sadnessof utterly useless sadnessseemed to wash over him. When? he asked. Has the family been told?

Unsworth shrugged. We received this note from the Foreign Ministry this morning. He passed it over. A reply to our representations on Friday.

The message comprised one sentence: In response to your enquiries of 18 February, we regret to inform you that the prisoner Wiesner has taken his own life, presumably out of guilt for his crime.

Wiesner had been dead within two days of his visit, Russell thought. Beaten to death, most probably. A blessed release, perhaps. But not for his family.

We assume the family has been informed, Unsworth was saying.

Why? Russell asked, handing back the note. Because its the decent thing to do?

Unsworth nodded, as if taking the point.

What about the visa situation? Russell wanted to know. Theres nothing to keep them here now. And surely. . . .

Im told the decisions on the next batch are being taken tomorrow afternoon. If you come back Friday morning I hope Ill have some good news for you.

Russell walked down the stairs and out past the line of visa-seekers on Unter den Linden. Once behind the Hanomags steering wheel he just sat there, staring down toward the Brandenburg Gate and the distant trees of the Tiergarten.

Eventually, almost somnambulantly, he put the car into gear and moved off, circling Pariserplatz and heading back up Unter den Linden toward Alexanderplatz and Neue Konigstrasse. What did you say to someone whose husband or father has just been murdered for the sin of being born to a particular race? What could you say? All around him the people of Berlin were going about their usual business, walking and driving and shopping and talking, laughing at jokes and smiling in friendship. If theyd heard of Sachsenhausen, they no doubt imagined neat rows of barracks, and some well-merited hard labor for the criminals and perverts residing there at the states pleasure. They hadn't seen a man they knew and liked twisted and torn out of human shape for the pleasure of others.

He couldn't even tell the story, not without Jens suffering for it. And even if he could, he had no evidence to back up his suppositions. The Nazis would claim that a crime like Wiesners was bound to provoke an angry reaction from his Aryan guards, and that the wretched Jew had simply taken the easy way out when he received a few well-deserved bruises. What, they would say, was the problem? Everyone had behaved in a racially appropriate manner, and the world had one less Jew to worry about.

On the Wiesners street he sat in the car, putting off the moment of truth. There was another car parked on the other side of the road, its windows open, with two bored-looking men smoking in the front seat. They looked like Kripo, Russell thought, and they were probably on loan to the Gestapo, which was notorious for believing itself above the more mundane aspects of police work.

Well, there was no law against teaching Jewish children English. He got out, walked up the familiar steps, rapped on the familiar door. An unfamiliar face appeared in the opening. A rather attractive woman, with a mass of curly brown hair and suspicious eyes. In her late thirties, Russell guessed.

He introduced himself, and her face changed. Come in, she said. Youve heard? she added.

About Dr. Wiesners death? Yes. Half an hour ago, at the British Embassy.

As he spoke, Marthe Wiesner emerged from the other room, closing the door behind her. Herr Russell. . . . she began.

I cant tell you how sorry I am to hear about your father, he said. There were two broken table lamps on the wooden chest, he noticed, and the curtain rail was hanging at an awkward angle.

Thank you, she said stiffly. She seemed calmalmost overly sobut for the moment at least the light in her eyes had gone out. This is Sarah Grostein, she said, introducing the other woman. Shes an old friend of the family. Mother is . . . well, you can imagine. The shock was terrible. For all of us, of course. Mother and Ruth are sleeping