Rehearsals
The studio car picked Effi up at five-thirty on Monday morning, establishing the pattern for the next two weeks. Whenever she had this sort of schedule Russell spent the weekday nights at Neuenburger Strasse, but on this occasion they agreed to spend Wednesday night - and the air raid rehearsal - together. Being bombed would be so much more interesting in each other's company.
That Monday morning, Russell left the flat soon after eight and headed across town to the Cafe Kranzler. The German newspapers seemed bemused by 'Hudson's Howler', unsure whether it represented a genuine offer, indignant at the very idea that the Reich could be bribed into acquiescence. As a story, Russell decided, it had run its course.
He spent most of the next two hours in one of the Adlon telephone booths, calling up a variety of German contacts in a vain trawl for fresh news. Suitably frustrated, he strode down the Wilhelmstrasse for the eleven o'clock press briefing at the Foreign Ministry. Ribbentrop's spokesman had a sneer or two prepared for the British, but, as usual, soon found himself on the defensive. An English correspondent asked about Pastor Schneider, the Rhineland clergy-man who'd been in custody for twenty-seven months, and whose death from a 'heart attack' in Buchenwald concentration camp had just been announced. Had the authorities reached a decision on which law he had broken?
'An internal German matter,' the spokesman blustered. He held up his hands, as if to show they were clean.
Briefings like that could sap the will to live, Russell thought, as he drove home to Neuenburger Strasse. Frau Heidegger's door was open, the woman herself lying in wait with her deadly coffee. Russell took his usual chair and the usual trepidatory sip, and was pleasantly surprised. 'My sister washed the pot out,' the concierge told him indignantly, 'and the coffee doesn't taste the same.'
'It's a little weaker,' Russell agreed, forbearing to add that it would still jolt a dead camel to life.
Like most Germans, her knowledge of America was gleaned solely from the movies, and Frau Heidegger's questions about Russell's trip were framed accordingly. She was disappointed that he hadn't seen the West, thrilled that he and Paul had visited the skyscraper made famous by
Her own week in Stettin had been wonderful. Her brother had arranged a sailing trip, and they'd gone so far out that they could hardly see the land. Returning to Berlin was the usual tale of woe, however. It always took her two weeks to undo what her sister had done in one.
'There's one thing I should know,' she said, having reminded herself of her duties. 'Will you be here on Wednesday night for the air raid rehearsal? I'm asking because Beiersdorfer will want to write it all down.' Beiersdorfer was the block warden, in name at least. He was as frightened of Frau Heidegger as the rest of them.
'No, I'll be at Effi's,' Russell said.
'Ah, I saw her picture in the paper,' Frau Heidegger said, leaping up and riffling through the pages of that day's
'It's a good picture,' he said.
'Did she talk to the Minister?'
'Just a few words. He complimented her on her acting.'
'That is good. She must have been pleased.'
'Yes, she was.' Russell took a final sip, gently pushed the cup away, and asked if any messages had been left for him.
There were two. Uwe Kuzorra had called - 'He has information for you, but he has no telephone, so you must call on him whenever it's convenient.' The second message was from a Frau Grostein. 'She said you know her. She would like you to call her on this number' - Frau Heidegger passed over a small square of paper. 'As soon as possible,' she said, 'but that was on Saturday, soon after I got back. The woman sounded... not upset, exactly. Excited perhaps?'
Russell shrugged his ignorance. 'I hardly know her. She's a friend of a friend. I'll call her now.' He got to his feet. 'Thanks for the coffee. It's good to have you back.'
She beamed.
He walked across the ground floor hallway to the block's only telephone and dialled the number.
'Frau Grostein,' a confident voice announced.
'John Russell. I've just got your message.'
'Mr Russell. I need to talk to you, but not on the telephone. Can we meet?'
'I suppose so.'
'Today?'
'All right.'
'It's ten past twelve now. How about two o'clock in the Rosengarten? By the Viktoria statue.'
'Fine. I'll see you there.' The line clicked off, and Russell replaced the ear-piece. A mistake? he wondered. These days his life seemed like one of those downhill ski runs he and Effi had seen at the Winter Olympics in '36. The contestants had plummeted down the mountainside at ever-increasing speeds, needing split-second changes of direction just to keep within bounds. Most had ended up in exploding flurries of snow, limbs and skis splayed at seemingly impossible angles.
Russell parked close to the Wagner monument on Tiergartenstrasse and walked up through the trees to the lake. Just past the statue of Albert Lortzing - the Germans did love their composers - a bridge led him over the stream and into the colonnaded Rosengarten. He caught sight of Sarah Grostein, crouching down to smell the dark red roses that surrounded the Empress Viktoria's marble plinth.
He walked towards her, glancing around as he did so. There were a few office workers, nannies with children, a pensioner or two. No one seemed interested in her or him. No one's head was hidden behind a raised newspaper. Paranoia, he told himself sternly. It beats the axe, a second inner voice retorted.
She stood up, looked round and saw him. She offered her hand and half-whispered, 'Thank you for coming.'
He just nodded.
'I thought we could walk,' she suggested. 'Towards the goldfish pond?'
She was older than he'd thought - around his own age, probably. Still attractive, though. Tall, big for a woman, but well-proportioned. Her clothes looked extremely expensive, her hair like someone had spent a lot of time on it. There was something feline about the contours of her face, something sad in the large brown eyes. 'Wherever you like,' he said.
After leaving the Rosengarten she chose one of the less-used pathways. 'Have you said anything to anyone about...seeing me where you did?'
'I should think half of Berlin saw you.'
'You know what I mean. After meeting me at the Wiesners. It must have surprised you.'
'Seeing a Jewish woman on an SS General's arm? It certainly made me curious.'
'So did you tell anyone?'
'Only my girlfriend.'
'Will she tell anyone?'
'No. When I told her she just suggested that half the people in Berlin were living double lives. And I didn't mention your name.'
'I'm surprised you remembered it.' She fell silent as a couple walked past in the opposite direction. 'I'm not Jewish by the way,' she said once the pair had gone by. She let out a short brittle laugh. 'Now that all Jewish females have Sarah as their second name it's assumed that anyone called Sarah is Jewish, but there are thousands of non-Jewish women named Sarah. Or were. I expect most of them have changed their names by now.'
'So how...?
'My husband was a Jew,' she said. 'Richard Grostein. A wonderful man. He died in Sachsenhausen five years
