'I had a wonderful time,' Paul said suddenly. 'The whole trip, I mean.'
'So did I,' Russell told him. He smiled at his son, but his heart ached. He knew why Paul had chosen this moment to say what he had, and what he might have added had he been a few years older. His son was a German boy in a German family, with an English father and an American grandmother, and he was growing up in a Germany that seemed bound for war with one or both of those countries. For four happy weeks the boy had been able to step outside the competing inheritances which defined his life, but now he was going home, to where they mattered most.
And though Paul would never say so, Effi's arrest could only make things worse.
They spent most of the day outside, watching the to-ings and fro-ings at Southampton, the warships anchored in The Nore roadstead off Portsmouth, the freighters in the Channel. The setting sun was colouring the white cliffs gold as they passed through the Straits of Dover, the lights brightening on the Belgian coast as darkness finally fell. They went to bed earlier than usual, but despite hardly sleeping the previous night Russell was still wide awake. He lay there in the dark, wondering what had happened, where Effi was. Maybe she'd already been released. Maybe she was en route to the new women's concentration camp at Ravensbruck. The thought brought him close to panic.
The Europa docked at Hamburg soon after ten the following morning. It seemed an eternity before disembarkation was underway, but the queue at passport control moved quickly enough. Russell was expecting a few questions about his passport - he'd left the Reich four weeks earlier as a UK citizen and was now returning as an American - but the German Consulate in New York had assured him that his resident status would be unaffected.
The officer took one look at Russell's passport and one at his face before calling over his supervisor, an overweight man with a large boil above one eye. He too examined the passport. 'You are travelling directly to Berlin?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'The Berlin Gestapo wish to interview you. About a relative who has been arrested, I believe. You know about this?'
'Yes.'
'You must report to Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel at the Prinz Albrecht-Strasse offices. You must go straight there. Understood?'
'I need to take my son home first.'
The man hesitated, caught in the familiar Nazi dilemma - human decency or personal safety. 'That would be inadvisable,' he said, reaching for the best of both worlds. 'I'm back,' Russell thought.
There were no questions about his passport, no search through their American purchases at customs. The taxi-ride to the station reminded Russell of his last visit to the city, when he'd been reporting on the launching of the battleship Bismarck, and the wonderful sight of Hitler struggling to contain himself as the ship refused to move.
Arriving at the station, he bought what seemed the most likely newspaper, but could find no reference to Effi's arrest. He didn't know, of course, how long she had been in custody. There were forty minutes until the next D-Zug express left for Berlin, so he parked Paul and the bags at a concourse cafe table and found a public telephone. Without a full address he had almost to beg the operator for Zarah's number, and the telephone rang about a dozen times before she answered.
'Zarah, it's John.'
'You're back? Thank God.'
'I'm in Hamburg. I'll be in Berlin this afternoon. Is Effi all right?'
'I don't know,' Zarah almost wailed. 'They won't let me see her. I've tried. Jens has tried.'
That was bad news - Zarah's husband Jens was a ranking bureaucrat and ardent Nazi, with all the influence that combination implied. 'What has she been arrested for?'
'They won't tell me. Two men from the Gestapo came to the house, told us that she had been arrested, and that I was to let you know by telegram - they even told me what ship you were on. They said not to tell anyone else.'
'Has there been anything in the newspapers?' Russell asked, suspicion growing.
'Nothing. I don't understand it. Do you?' she asked, more than a hint of accusation in her voice.
'No,' Russell said, though he probably did. 'I'll be back in Berlin about four,' he told her. 'The Gestapo want to see me the moment I arrive. I'll call you after I've seen them.'
He hung up and rang a more familiar number, that of Paul's mother and stepfather. Ilse picked up. Russell briefly explained what had happened, and asked if she could meet the train at Lehrter Station. She said she would.
He walked back across the busy concourse, feeling both relieved and depressed. The whole thing was a setup, aimed at him. Why else keep it quiet? Effi might have said something out of turn and been reported - it was hardly out of character - but when it came down to it the Gestapo were more than capable of simply making something up. Whichever it was, they had their leverage against him. Which was good news and bad news. Good because it almost certainly meant that he could secure Effi's release, bad because of what they would want in return.
Paul was looking at the newspaper. 'The Fuhrer revealed that the new Chancery would have another purpose from 1950,' he read aloud, 'but declined to say what that would be.'
A lunatic asylum, Russell guessed, but he didn't think his son would appreciate the joke.
'Can we go up to the platform?' Paul asked.
'Why not.'
The D-Zug was already standing there, a long red bullet of a train. Paul placed a palm on its shiny side, and Russell could almost hear him thinking: 'This is what Germans can do.'
They finished lunch an hour into the journey, and Russell slept fitfully for most of the rest. Ilse and her husband Matthias were waiting on the Lehrter Station concourse, and both seemed really pleased to see Paul. Russell thanked them for coming.
'Do you want a lift?' Matthias asked.
'No thanks.' The idea of them all drawing up outside the Gestapo's Prinz Albrecht-Strasse HQ for a family visit seemed almost surreal, not to mention unwise.
'I hope it's all right,' Paul said. 'Send Effi...tell her I want us to visit the Aquarium again.'
'Yes, call us,' Ilse insisted.
'I will. But don't tell anyone else about her arrest. The Gestapo don't want any publicity.'
'But...' Ilse began.
'I know,' Russell interrupted her. 'But we can always make a stink later, if we need to.'
Goodbyes said, Russell deposited his suitcases in the station left luggage and hailed a cab. 'Prinz Albrecht- Strasse,' he said, 'the Gestapo building.' The cabbie grimaced in sympathy.
It was usually a ten minute ride, but the evening rush hour was underway and the bridges across the Spree were choked with traffic. The eastern end of the Tiergarten was crowded with walkers enjoying the late afternoon sunshine. 'The summer before the war,' Russell murmured to himself. Or maybe not.
The traffic thinned after the Potsdamer Platz traffic lights, and disappeared altogether as they swung into Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. The cabbie took Russell's money, joked that he wouldn't wait, and drove off towards the Wilhelmstrasse. Staring up at the grey, five-storey megalith, Russell could see his point.
He'd been in worse places, he told himself, and even managed to think of a couple. Pushing his way through the heavy front doors, he found himself surrounded by the usual high columns and curtains. A great slab of a desk stood in front of a flag which could have clothed half of Africa, always assuming the locals liked red, white and black. Behind the desk, looking suitably dwarfed by his surroundings, a man in official Gestapo uniform - not the beloved leather coat - was reading what looked like a technical manual of some sort. He ignored Russell's presence for several seconds, then gestured him forward with an impatient flick of a finger.
'My name is John Russell, and I have an appointment with a Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel,' Russell told him.
'For what time?'
