stationery rep from Hamburg and a waiter from the Harz Mountainswas empty for once, though the strong smell of McKinleys pipe smoke suggested a lengthy occupation earlier that evening. There was still light under the Americans door, and Russell could hear the soft clicking of his typewriterthe newer machines were much quieter than his own antique.
Back in bed, he re-read Pauls postcard and resumed reading the detective novel he had forgotten to take to Danzig. Unable to remember who anyone was, he turned out the light and listened to the muffled hum of the traffic on nearby Lindenstrasse. The Fuhrer was probably allowed to sleep with his windows open.
HE SPENT THE NEXT two days looking after business. Wednesday and Thursday morning, he made the long trek out to Friedrichshain for two 90-minute sessions with the Wiesner girls. The elder daughter Marthe was a bit shy at first, but Ruths enthusiasm proved infectious enough to bring her out. The two of them knew very little English, but they were a joy to teach, eager to learn and markedly more intelligent than the spoiled daughters of Grunewald and Wilmersdorf whom Russell had taught in the past.
This was on the Wednesdaythe following day both girls looked as though theyd seen a ghost, and Russell wondered whether theyd had bad news from Sachsenhausen. When he asked if they were all right, he thought Marthe was going to cry, but she took a visible grip on herself and explained that her brother had come home the previous evening.
But thats wonderful. . . . Russell began.
He doesnt seem like Albert, Ruth broke in, looking over her shoulder at the door through to the other rooms. He has no hair, and he doesnt say anything, she whispered.
He will, Marthe told her sister, putting an arm round her. Hes just seen some terrible things, but he hasnt been hurt, not really. Now come on, we have to learn English. For everyones sake.
And they did, faster than any pupils Russell could remember. Neither mother nor brother emerged from the other rooms, and Doctor Wiesner was out on both days. On the Thursday he left Russell a small amount of marks and three stamps in an envelope on top of the latest Stanley Gibbons catalogue from England. Russell didn't bother to check the listings.
Wednesday afternoon, he had typed out the stamp wars article and stuck two copies in the red air mail box by the Hotel Bristol entrance on Unter den Linden. Thursday morning, a telegram arrived from his London agent pointing out the need for exclusive photographs with his piece on Hitlers new Chancellery, and that afternoon Russell dragged himself out to a photographic studio in the wilds of Neukolln, only to discover that the photographer in question, a Silesian named Zembski whom hed used in the past, had just lost his official accreditation after starting a brawl at one of Goerings hunting parties. Zembski weighed over 200 pounds, and could hardly be smuggled into the Fuhrers new insult to architecture, but he did prove willing to rent out one of his better cameras. After a short instruction course Russell carried the Leica back to Hallesches Tor.
Frau Heidegger was waiting for himor anyonein the lobby. Her husband had been killed in the last warYou might have been the one who shot him, she frequently told Russelland his brother had just been round to see her, full of useful information about the next one. She had assumed it would take place at some distance from her door, but this illusion had been cruelly shattered. Cities will be bombed flat, her brother-in-law had told her, flat as ironing boards.
Russell told her that, yes, English or French or Russian bombers could now reach Berlin, but that most of them would be shot down if they tried, because air defenses were improving all the time. She didn't look convinced, but then neither was he. How many Europeans, he wondered, had any idea what kind of war they were headed for?
FRIDAY MORNING WAS SUNNY and cold. After a late breakfast of rolls and coffee at a local cafe, Russell walked west along the Landwehrkanal. He wasnt due to meet Effi for a couple of hours, so he took his time, stopping to read his morning paper on a bench near the double-decker bridges which carried the U- bahn and Reichsbahn lines over the torpid brown water. Coal-laden barges chugged by, leaving thin trails of oil in their wake.
He walked on for another kilometer or so, leaving the canal where it passed under Potsdamerstrasse. Almost exactly twenty years earlier, the bodies of Rosa Luxemburg and Karl Liebknecht had been fished out of waters close to this spot. The empty site on the other side of the road had been home to a synagogue until the previous November. Rosa, of course, had been everything the Nazis despiseda Jew, a communist, a woman who refused to stay home and rear children. Russell was surprised that no official celebration had been decreed for the anniversary of her death.
Cutting through side streets, he eventually reached the domed Ubahn station at Nollerndorfplatz, and started walking up Kleiststrasse toward the distant spires of the Kaiser Memorial church. As the Ubahn tracks beside him slid slowly underground, the shops grew progressively larger and richer, the awnings of the pavement cafes more decorative. Despite the cold, most of the outside seats were occupied; men and women sat in their overcoats, or tightly wrapped in large blankets, chewing their cream cakes and sipping at their steaming coffees.
Both sidewalks and road were crowded now. Shoppers streamed in and out of the KaDeWe department store on Wittenbergplatz, cars and trams ran bumper to bumper on the narrower Tauenzienstrasse, jostling each other round the neo-Gothic Memorial Church, with its distressingly secular mosaics celebrating the highly dubious glories of past German emperors. Walking past it, and thinking about his conversation with Frau Heidegger, Russell had a sudden mental picture of jagged spires looming out of a broken roof, a future Berlin pre-figured in his memories of northern France.
He started up the busy Kurfurstendamm, or the Kudamm, as everyone called it. The Cafe Uhlandeck, where he was supposed to meet Effi, was a ten minute stroll away, and he still had half an hour to spare. An African parrot in a pet shop caught his attention: It was the sort of birthday present Effi would love, but he doubted her ability to look after it properly. For one thing she was away too often. For another, she was Effi.
A woman in a fur coat emerged from the shop with two pedigree schnauzers in tow. Both had enamel swastikas fastened to their collars, and Russell wondered whether they had pictures of the Fuhrer pinned up inside their kennels. Would that be considered a sign of respect, or the lack of such? Political etiquette in the Third Reich was something of a minefield.
He passed the aryanized Grunfeld factory, and the site of another destroyed synagogue. A photographic album of such sites would be a best-seller in Nazi Germany:
Russell stopped and watched a tram cross the intersection, bell clanging. Why was he feeling so angry this morning? Was it the
Reaching the Cafe Uhlandeck he sat at one of the outside tables and stared back down the Kudamm in search of Effis familiar silhouette. He had met her a few days before Christmas 1933, while researching a piece on Leni Riefenstahl for a Hollywood gossip magazine. At a studio party someone had pointed out a slim, black-haired woman in her late twenties, told Russell that her name was Effi Koenen, and that she had appeared alongside Riefenstahl when the latter was still acting in films, rather than directing them.
Effis part in that film, as she was only too happy to inform him, had consisted of five lines, two smiles, one pout, and a dignified exit. She had thought Riefenstahl a good actress, but had hated
The flat was a couple of blocks north of the Kudamm, a three room affair which her wealthy parents had bought in the early 1920s from a victim of the Great Inflation, and given to her as a twenty-fifth birthday present. Her acting career had been reasonably successfula film here, a play there, a musical if nothing else was on offerwithout making her rich or particularly famous. She was occasionally recognized on the street when Russell was with her, and almost always for the part she had played in a 1934 film, the wife of a stormtrooper beaten to death by communists. That had been a seventeen lines, one smile, one scream, dignified-at-funeral part.
She was currently appearing in
