'I have some news for you,' he said. 'I had to go to the Soviet Embassy last week on other business - journalistic stuff - and I passed your request to the relevant person. They'll check you out with Moscow, of course, and with whatever's left of the KPD leadership. Assuming that all goes okay,' he said, glancing across at her, 'they want me to be your contact here in Berlin.'
She looked surprised at this. 'I didn't realize...' she began.
He thought about explaining his involvement, and decided against. She didn't need to know.
'It sounds like a good idea,' she said at last. 'We are people who could have met and become friends in ordinary circumstances.'
He glanced at her, wondering if that was true. 'You've got my number,' he said. 'And I'll give you my girlfriend's as well. But please, only use hers in an emergency. She's not involved in this.'
They sat in silence for the rest of the journey. Every so often she flicked the ash from her cigarette out of the window, but seemed too lost in thought to actually smoke. The sun appeared behind them as they drove east on Lothringer Strasse, and by the time they reached the entrance to the Friedrichshain park the sky was rapidly turning blue. Freya and Wilhelm Isendahl were waiting by the sculptures of Hansel and Gretel at the foot of the Marchen- Brunnen waterfalls.
They looked like the ideal Nazi couple. Freya's shoulder-length blonde hair framed an open face, very blue eyes and a ready smile. Her clothes and shoes were both attractive and practical, and her skin had the freshness of innocence. Wilhelm was equally good-looking, but several years older. His neatly-parted hair was a darker shade of blonde, and his eyes were green. The long nose and full mouth reminded Russell, somewhat unfortunately, of Reinhard Heydrich. Which raised all sorts of interesting questions.
Both were wearing wedding rings.
They introduced themselves, Sarah and Wilhelm exchanging nods of recognition. Walking on into the park Russell remembered his last visit with Albert Wiesner. The trees had been bare, the grass flecked with snow, and Albert had been silently daring every passer-by to call him a Jew. The cafe owner had risen to the challenge, and initially refused to serve them.
Russell suspected that Wilhelm Isendahl was every bit as angry, but that his defiance took a different form. Wilhelm simply assumed his right to equality, as worthy of his human status as any paid-up member of the master- race. The lack of stereotypical Jewish features helped, but the self-belief came from within. When they reached the cafe, which was now sporting a large 'Jews prohibited' sign, Wilhelm shared a joke with the proprietor and helped Russell carry the coffees back to their table.
Russell told Freya about his meeting with her parents.
'How are they?' she asked, without much enthusiasm. 'They were so rotten to Wilhelm,' she added, as if in explanation. 'I still find it hard to forgive them.'
Russell shrugged. 'I'll take your word for it. All they said to me was that he was a bit of a mischief- maker.'
Wilhelm grunted with apparent amusement, but Freya's eyes blazed. 'You see what I mean! A mischief- maker! What do they expect Jews like Wilhelm to do? Just let the Nazis walk all over them?'
Russell smiled. 'I understand. I'm just the messenger. They just asked me to make sure you're all right.'
'Well, you can see that I am,' she said, and Russell had to agree. She looked tired, certainly, but there was a happy sparkle in the eyes. 'Look,' she said, relenting, 'I will write to them, tell them that we are married. Do you have their address?' She looked sheepish for a moment. 'I'm afraid I threw their letters away.'
Russell wrote it out in his reporter's notebook and tore out the page. 'I'll wire them and say you'll be writing,' he said, passing it across. 'Are you still working at the University?' he asked.
'No. At Siemens,' she said. 'As a secretary in the offices. Wilhelm works there too.'
Russell raised an eyebrow.
'The government lets them hire Jews because they're short of armaments workers,' Wilhelm told him. 'And Siemens are all in favour because they can get away with paying us next to nothing. But both of them may live to regret it. We are getting organized - Jews and non-Jews together.'
'Frau Grostein said you wanted to meet me in my journalistic capacity.'
'Yes.' He pulled a much-folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket and carefully opened it up. 'Have you seen these?' he asked, passing it over.
It looked like the leaflet Russell had read on the tram. The message was different - this one concerned the recent death in a concentration camp of a prominent pastor - but the viewpoint and printing style were identical.
'Our group is responsible for these,' Wilhelm went on. 'It would be good if we could get some coverage in the foreign press. Let people know that some of us are fighting back.'
'All right, but why the foreign press?'
'Because we'll never get mentioned in the German press, and word does get back. When people come back from outside the cage they tell their friends what they've read and heard, and that gives other people hope that these pigs won't be lording it over us for a thousand years. Any news of resistance boosts everyone's morale, it really does.'
Everyone hungers after fame, Russell thought cynically, and mentally scolded himself. Who was he to judge this young man? 'I'll see what I can do,' he said. 'It'll have to be generalised, of course. I can't say I've actually been talking to the people responsible for the leaflets, or they'll want me to name names. I don't think journalistic privilege covers treason these days. But this group of yours - is it just printing leaflets?'
'It's not my group,' Wilhelm said with some asperity, 'and distribution is the dangerous part.'
'I appreciate that.'
'Good.' The young man's irritation passed as swiftly as it had risen. 'Other-wise... well, we hold discussion meetings, and we help organize support for people with no income. And we're thinking about printing a regular news sheet...'
'Any connection with the Palestine group?'
Wilhelm looked scornful. 'You don't fight race hatred by creating a state based on race. That's what the Nazis are doing.'
'Not in the same way,' Sarah Grostein interjected.
'What's the difference?' Wilhelm wanted to know.
'I think that's an argument for another time and place,' Russell said, aware that at least one other customer was watching them. An open-air cafe in Hitler's Berlin hardly seemed the ideal setting for an angry argument between communists about the future of Palestine. He turned to Freya. 'If you give me your address,' he said, 'I can give it to your parents when I wire them.'
She looked at Wilhelm, who nodded.
Russell wrote it down - one of the run-down streets off Busching Platz, if he remembered correctly. 'And I'll let you know if I can get you some publicity,' he told Wilhelm. They were all on their way back to the park entrance when he had a better idea. 'You could write something yourself,' he told Wilhelm. 'About your campaign, I mean. Your motives, how you distribute the leaflets, how you keep one step ahead of the Gestapo. Say what you want to say but make it sound exciting, even if it isn't.'
'Who would print it?'
'Send it to me, along with a covering letter saying who you are and who you represent. Not your real name, of course, but something convincing. I know - you can also send me an advanced copy of your next leaflet, and tell me to look out for other copies in a few days time. On a particular tram route, say. That'll give me all the proof I need that the article and the leaflets have been written by the same people. The creeps at the Propaganda Ministry won't be very happy, but I'll just be behaving like a responsible journalist. I got sent the piece, I checked its source, and I sent it for publication. And no, I have no idea who it came from.'
Wilhelm smiled, and looked several years younger. 'I will do it.'
'Send it to me, John Russell, care of the Adlon Hotel.'
They shook hands. Russell and Sarah Grostein watched the young couple walk off arm in arm, Freya's blonde head resting on Wilhelm's shoulder. The similarities between her past and Freya's present accounted for the wistfulness in Sarah's face, but there was also something harder there, something beyond recall. Just age perhaps, or the knowledge of what could go wrong, and how you dealt with that.
In the car she lit another cigarette, took a single puff and threw it away. 'He's a brave man,' she said
