the page almost at arms length. Even if a Jew slept with an Aryan woman once, the membranes of her vagina would be so impregnated with alien semen that the woman would never again be able to bear pure blooded Aryans. He lowered the paper and looked at Russell. Who could believe such pre-scientific nonsense? It doesnt even make sense on their own illiterate termssurely the master race would have the all-powerful blood, not the people they despise. He saw something in Russells face. Im sorry. I dont know why I am telling you all this. Its just so hard to accept.
I understand, Russell said.
So why do you, an Englishman, stay in Germany? Wiesner asked him.
Russell gave a short account of his situation.
That is difficult, the doctor agreed. But good news for my daughters if you agree to teach them.
How many lessons do you have in mind?
As many as you can manage. And as often.
Three times a week? Monday, Wednesday, Friday? Itll vary a bit. I cant do Friday this week, but I could do Thursday.
Whatever you say. Now for the difficult part. I have some money, but not very much. Andhere I must trust youI have some valuable stamps. I can show you the valuation in the current catalogue and add another ten percent.
It was a nice idea, but Russell couldn't do it. The catalogue value will suit me fine.
IT WAS ALMOST DARK when he emerged from the Wiesners block, and the tram rides home through the evening rush hour seemed endless. By the time he reached Hallesches Tor he was ready for supper, and his favourite beerhouse beneath the elevated U-bahn provided the necessary meatballs and potato pancakes. Over a second beer he decided not to sell any of Wiesners stamps unless he really needed to. He would give them to Paul, whose collection could do with some rarities.
That was assuming his son would accept them. Paul was forever worrying about his fathers financial statean anxiety which Russell occasionally, and without much conviction, tried to blame on his ex-wife Ilse.
He looked at his watch: He didn't have long to ring Paul before his bedtime. A U-bahn rattled into the station above as he emerged from the beerhouse, and a stream of people were soon pouring down the iron staircase, exhaling thick puffs of breath in the cold evening air. It was one of those Berlin days when the weather seemed uncertain what to do, one minute veering toward a western warmth, the next favoring an eastern chill.
Entering his street, he noticed what looked like an empty car parked across from his apartment block. This was unusualvery few people in the area could afford one. He thought about crossing the street to take a look inside but decided he was being paranoid. He hadn't done anything to upset the authorities. Not yet, anyway.
A blast of hot air greeted him as he opened the outside doors of the apartment block. Frau Heideggers skat evening was in full swing, the volume of laughter suggesting a large consignment of empty bottles for the morning collection. Russell dialed the number of the house in Grunewald, put the earpiece to one ear and a finger in the other. As he half-expected, Ilse picked up. They asked each other the usual questions, gave the usual answers, all with the faint awkwardness which they never seemed able to shake. The family had just gotten back from Hanover, and when Paul came on he was full of the wonders of the autobahn and his stepfathers new Horch 830 Bl. As far as Saturday was concerned, his usual school lessons had been replaced by
Right. Effi would be pleased, Russell thought. He wouldn't have to leave while she was still fast asleep.
And were still going to the Viktoria match?
Of course. I expect Uncle Thomas and Joachim will come too.
They chatted for another couple of minutes, before Ilses voice in the background decreed that time was up. Russell said good night and, feeling the usual mixture of elation and frustration, started up the stairs.
He was waylaid on the third floor landing by the other resident journalist in the building, a young American named Tyler McKinley. I thought I heard your weary tread, the American said in English. Come in for a minute. I want to ask you something.
It seemed simpler to say yes than no. McKinleys room wasnt particularly warmlike the other residents he knew that skat night was a chance to freshen the airbut it was full of pipe-smoke from the atrocious Balkan mixture he had adopted during a weekend trip to Trieste.
How was Danzig? his host asked, though Russell could see he was bursting with stuff of his own to talk about. There was something lovable about McKinley, but also something profoundly irritating. Russell hoped that this wasnt just because McKinley, with his quasi-religious belief in crusading journalism, reminded him of himself in long-gone days. That was the trouble with the youngtheir stupidities brought back ones own.
Interesting, he answered, though it had been anything but in the way that McKinley meant. He considered telling him about the stamp wars, but could imagine the look of incomprehension and vague derision which that would elicit.
The younger man was already back in Berlin. Im chasing a really interesting story, he said. I dont want to say anything yet, he hastened to add, but . . . do you know anything about the KdF, the
Its the great mans private chancellery.
Is it a government office?
No, its a Party office, but an independent one. Theres no connection to Bormanns bunch in Munich.
McKinley looked excited. So who is it connected to?
Russell shrugged. Nobody. It reports directly to Hitler as far as I know.
So if he wanted to do something on the quiet, it would be the ideal instrument.
Uh-huh.
McKinley beamed, as if hed just awarded himself a gold star.
You want to tell me what youre talking about? Russell asked, interested in spite of himself.
Not yet, the American said, but he couldn't resist one more question. Does the name Knauer mean anything to you?
A fullback with Tennis Borussia a few years back?
What? Oh, a soccer player. No, I dont think so. He reached for a lighter to re-start his pipe. But thanks for your help.
Youre welcome, Russell said, and resumed his ascent.
His room was sweltering, but mercifully smoke-free. Guessing that the skat game still had a couple of hours to run, he threw one window wide and gazed out across the rooftops. In the far distance the red light atop the Funkturm winked above the roofscape.
He sat down at the typewriter, inserted a sheet of paper, and reminded himself that the letter he was about to write wasas far as the Soviets were concernedjust a long-winded way of saying yes. His real audience was the Gestapo.
Play the innocent, he thought. The Gestapo would think he was trying to fool the Soviets, and assume he was just being cynical.
He began by asserting the happy coincidence that National Socialism and the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had one crucial word in commonsocialism. That should give them both a laugh, he thought. They might seem like enemies, he continued, but clearly they had something important in commonsocialisms determination to serve all the people. What could serve the people better than peace? And what served peace better than mutual understanding? If the Soviet people were offered, in a series of articles, a clearer idea of how much National Socialism had achieved for ordinary German people, then the chances of peace were bound to be enhanced. As an Englishman with a long experience of Germany he was ideally placed to explain it to foreigners. And he had a strong personal reason for desiring peaceif war came, he added pathetically, he and his German-born son might be separated for years and years. Here I am, he murmured to himself, a propaganda tool for the taking. The Gestapo would lap it up.
He copied the address from Shchepkins note onto an envelope, unearthed a stamp from the table drawer, and perched the completed missive on his typewriter. Hearing the sounds of departing concierges floating up from the courtyard he made a dive for the window and pulled it shut.
Bed, he thought. The bathroom on the floor below which he shared with McKinley and two other mena
