Over his years in Berlin, Russell had met a lot of influential people in government, arts and the media. Most leaned to the left politically, and many had lost their jobs when the Nazis came to power; some had even left the country. But a surprising number were still in the same positions, keeping their heads down and waiting for the whole shocking business to blow over. Self-preservation was an obvious priority, and precluded open criticism, but briefings off the record were another matter. The urge to stick spokes in the Nazi wheel was surprisingly widespread.
Sometimes, though, there was no dirt to dish. After speaking to a dozen people, Russell was no nearer to knowing how likely a Nazi-Soviet agreement might be. Some of his contacts had laughed at the idea, others had thought it possible, but only one man - an economist who worked for the Trade Ministry - had anything definite to tell him. A trade agreement between the two countries was a racing certainty, the man said, but there was no guarantee that a political deal would follow.
He dropped in on the Adlon Bar to make sure no official briefings were imminent, and checked his wire service. A three word message had arrived the previous night from San Francisco: 'How about Silesia?'
'How about it?' Russell muttered to himself, but he saw his editor's point. As far as the international community was concerned, Danzig looked like a soluble problem. The Poles might not like it, but Danzig was, in the last resort, a German city. A bilateral deal that included its peaceful absorption into the Reich would not involve the Poles in giving up any of their own territory.
Upper Silesia was a different matter. Poland had been reformed in 1918 from the debris of the German, Austrian and Russian Empires, and any reversal of that process could only be seen as a national death-knell. If Hitler went for Upper Silesia - or for any of the other so-called 'lost territories' - his intent would be crystal-clear. So what was happening down there? Was the border between the two Silesias as tense as Poland's border with Danzig? It would be worth a trip to find out.
Russell went back to the Hanomag, collected the
Once inside, he gave his name and asked to see someone about an American passport for his son. The receptionist gave him a quick worried look and disappeared through a door behind her desk. She returned a minute or so later with the sort of smiling young man that Russell imagined was found on Californian beaches. His blond hair was almost bleached, his tan a tribute to Berlin's summer. 'This way,' he said, beckoning Russell through the door. 'I've been expecting you. My name's Michael Brown,' he added.
They climbed to an office on the second floor. 'This was Blucher's palace,' the young man said. 'You know, the guy at Waterloo.'
'Before my time,' Russell told him.
'So, do you have anything for me?'
Russell explained what had happened in Prague, and handed over
'Of course.' Brown was leafing through the book with the air of someone searching for secrets.
'Do you have any messages for me?'
Brown looked surprised. 'None.'
'So, for German consumption, you're being difficult about giving my son a passport, and you've told me to come back in a couple of weeks. All right?'
'Sure.'
Russell got to his feet. 'Nice to meet you.'
A neatly-uniformed maid answered the door on Altonaer Strasse. Was Frau Umbach expecting him?
'Frau Grostein is,' Russell said, wondering who the hell Frau Umbach was.
'Wait there,' the maid said, shutting the door in his face.
She returned a few moments later to beckon him in. 'This way,' she said, leading him down a hallway, through a very modern-looking kitchen, and out into a small, secluded courtyard garden. Sarah Grostein was sitting at an iron table, under a pergola draped in deep red roses. She was wearing a simple blouse and slacks, smoking what smelt like a Turkish cigarette, and halfway through writing a letter. Her mass of wavy brown hair certainly looked feminine, but in all other respects she fell lamentably short of the official ideal of Nazi womanhood.
'Mr Russell,' she said, offering him a chair.
'Frau Umbach?' he asked.
She grimaced. 'I should have told you. My friend has decided I should use my maiden name. For obvious reasons.'
'I got your message.'
'Good. Freya wants to meet you. And so does Wilhelm, come to that.'
'Why?'
She smiled. 'I think he's looking for some publicity, but...'
'For what?'
'He can tell you that. Are you busy this evening, around six o'clock? That was one of the times they offered me.'
He hated giving up precious time with Effi , but she would understand. 'I'm free.'
'I'll confirm it with them this afternoon. You have a car?'
'Of a sort.'
'You can pick me up then. Say five-thirty.'
'Fine.' He considered telling her about Gorodnikov, but decided it would be safer to have that conversation in the car.
As she led him back to the front door, he caught a glimpse of a Kandinsky on the living room wall. 'Doesn't your friend object to the painting?' he asked.
'He likes it,' she said simply, and opened the door.
'Five-thirty,' he reiterated over his shoulder.
The Hanomag looked particularly down-at-heel in its current surroundings. The luxury models which usually lined Altonaer Strasse were nowhere to be seen, but not, Russell suspected, because they were out on military manoeuvres with the Wehrmacht. Those cars would have been hidden away for the duration at their owners' country homes.
A tap on the fuel gauge revealed that the Hanomag was running low on petrol. The big garage on Muller- Strasse was almost on his way to Kuzorra's, and had a public telephone he could use to call the studio.
The garage was open, but would only sell him five litres of petrol. There was a shortage, the manager told him, with the air of someone explaining something for the umpteenth time. The military had first claim on what there was, and everyone was running short. All over Berlin regular customers were getting ten litres, strangers five. He should go to his local garage, and not waste too much time about it - the autobahn service stations had already run dry.
Russell took his five litres and pulled over beside the telephone to call the studio. The woman who answered seemed only half-there, but managed to repeat Russell's name and message back to him. 'That's for Effi Koenen,' he repeated. 'Oh,' she said, as if it was the first time she'd heard the name.
He drove on to Kuzorra's, wondering whether he'd even reach his local garage with this much petrol in the tank. Maybe the SD had stores set aside for their best agents. He couldn't imagine the Gestapo running dry - cruising up and down streets looking ominous was what made them happy.
Frau Kuzorra's welcome seemed chillier than before, and her husband, en-sconced in his usual chair, could only manage the wryest of smiles. The man looked older, Russell thought, as he refused Frau Kuzorra's half-hearted offer of coffee.
'I won't waste your time,' Kuzorra said once Russell was seated. 'I have to give up this enquiry.'
'Why?' Russell asked simply.
'I will tell you, but I ask you not to repeat any of this. Except to Herr Schade, of course. And please ask him not to repeat it to anyone else.'
