husband was hardly Russell's idea of an enjoyable Friday evening, even in war-time Berlin. In fact, now that he thought about it, the turn in the weather was somewhat unfortunate. An air raid might have shortened the torment.
Neither newspaper nor coffee improved his mood. The latter seemed worse than ever, a cold brown soup that bore no relation to the real thing, and the former was full of self-congratulatory coverage of the recently- concluded, so-called conference.
'Let's hear it for small heaps,' Russell murmured to himself. A long article in the same paper revealed the 'secret last testament' of Tsar Peter the Great, a template for expansionism which the Bolsheviks had taken for their own. The journalists concerned seemed unaware that the testament in question had been revealed as a forgery more than thirty years before.
After attending two press conferences and writing one uninspired article, he met Effi at the Zoo Station buffet. Zarah and Jens Biesinger lived on the border of Grunewald and Schmargendorf, a kilometre or so east of his son Paul's home. It was an important kilometre in social terms, and the Biesinger house, though ample in size for a family of three, was considerably less spacious than the small mansion which Matthias Gehrts had inherited from his industrialist father. There were also, as Russell had noticed on previous visits to collect Effi, many more swastikas waving in the less leafy street.
The promised cloud cover had arrived, deepening the blackout, and they stepped down from their tram into a river of dancing blue lights, as phosphorescent-badged Berliners crowded the pavements on their way home from work. Effi remembered one of her soldiers in the Elisabeth Hospital describing Russian skies awash with coloured flares. She tightened her grip on Russell's arm. 'John, be nice this evening.'
'I'm always nice.'
'Who are you talking to? I'm serious. Zarah's not doing well at the moment, and from everything she says I don't think Jens can be either.' 'I thought he'd been promoted.'
'He has. But I don't think... This is the street, isn't it?'
'It's Karlsbaderstrasse,' a passing voice in the dark said helpfully.
'Thank you.'
'You were saying?' Russell said, once they'd found the white kerb.
'Zarah says he's drinking more than he used to.'
'That wouldn't be difficult. The last time I came to dinner here the wine was in thimbles.'
'That was years ago. And I thought you promised to be nice.'
'I am. I will be. But what problems do they have? A Party favourite with a prestige job and a wife who doesn't have to work. Is Lothar okay?'
'It's not that simple,' Effi retorted. Sometimes she wondered how someone so intelligent could also be so obtuse.
'Is Lothar okay?' Russell asked again 'He's fine,' Effi replied. 'A bit strange perhaps, but fine.'
'Strange how?' Two years ago Zarah and Jens had been worried that their child was mentally sub-normal, not something they wanted to publicise given the Party's attitude to handicapped people of any age or type. Russell had escorted Zarah and the boy to London for a clandestine assessment. Lothar, it turned out, was just a little disconnected from the rest of humanity. There was nothing to worry about.
'Oh, I don't know,' Effi said. 'Just little things. One of Jens's sisters bought him a stunning set of toy soldiers for his birthday, and he just refused to play with them. Wouldn't say why, just put them back in their box and left them there.'
'Sounds very sensible to me.'
'You wouldn't say that if it was Paul. Remember how overjoyed he was when Thomas bought him that set of dead soldiers. He went on and on about how realistic they were.'
'True,' Russell conceded. He didn't want to talk about Paul.
'Lothar says the strangest things sometimes,' Effi went on. 'He asked me the other day whether pretending to be other people at work made me confused when I wasn't. It's not an unreasonable question, but from a six year-old?'
'I see what you mean.'
They were almost there. Effi pulled them to a halt at the gate, and put her hands on his shoulders. 'It hurts me that Zarah and I aren't as close as we used to be. This war will end one day, and I want to still have a sister when it does.' She stared him in the eye, making sure he understood her. 'We may not like how they think or what Jens does, but they're part of our family.'
'I get it,' Russell said. He did.
It was Lothar who answered the door, smiling happily at Effi and earnestly shaking hands with Russell. Zarah appeared, looking much the same as ever, a full-figured woman with wavy chestnut hair which now hung past her shoulder. She gave him a bigger smile than he expected, and kissed him warmly on the cheek. Jens emerged last. He looked at least five years older than he had in 1939, although much-thinned hair perhaps exaggerated the effect. He was out of uniform for once, unless the enamel swastika in his lapel could be counted as such.
A surprisingly wonderful smell was coming from the kitchen. Perhaps the quality of the ingredients had transcended the quality of the cook, Russell thought unkindly.
Jens seemed eager to get them drinking, and appeared slightly disappointed when Lothar commandeered both guests for a look at his latest acquisition - an atlas of world animals. He had the book open at a map of the Soviet Union, a double-page spread full of wolves, black bears and Siberian tigers. The Red Army and Wehrmacht were nowhere to be seen.
With Zarah announcing that dinner was fifteen minutes away, Effi took Lothar upstairs for a bedtime story and Russell was able to oblige Jens's desire to share his excellent wine. The two of them swapped opinions on the military news from Africa - a safe option in that neither had any real idea what was happening - and Russell offered a vaguely optimistic view of events in the East, which he assumed would please his host. All he got was a frown. 'We must hope for the best,' was all Jens would say.
This was a surprise, and made Russell want to dig deeper. What did Jens know that Dr Schmidt and Dr Goebbels did not?
Effi's reappearance prevented it. 'Lothar is ready for his goodnight kiss,' she told her brother-in-law. 'How's it going?' she asked Russell once Jens had disappeared up the stairs.
'Splendidly,' he told her.
She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to stare at the framed Fuhrer above the mantelpiece. 'How's your war going?' Russell muttered at him. 'As well as you hoped, or are the cracks beginning to show?'
'Second sign of madness,' Effi said at his shoulder.
'What's the first?'
'Talking to portraits of Goering. It's time to sit down.'
They went through into the dining room. Zarah had lit candles, but resisted Effi's suggestion that they turn off the lights - 'There's too much darkness these days.' Jens returned and topped up their glasses - his, Russell noticed, was already empty. He and Effi shared knowing glances.
The food - a sausage casserole with unmistakably real sausage - was excellent, and Russell said so.
'You needn't sound so surprised,' Zarah told him with a nervous smile.
'I'm not,' Russell protested, but he did wonder whether their hosts knew how few people in Berlin would be enjoying a dinner as good as this. He knew better than to ask, though.
'These days any good meal is a surprise,' Effi interjected diplomatically.
As they ate, the conversation meandered through the current Berlin topics - the sudden shortage of shoes, the irritating air raids, the recent avalanche of leaflets criticising the government, the errant behaviour of youth. 'Two boys were caught throwing stones at the trains last week,' Zarah said. 'Near Halensee Station, I think it was. They were on their way home from a
Jens said little, and even then only when his wife appealed to him directly. He seemed distracted, Russell thought. He was drinking steadily, and had sunk well over a bottle of wine before they turned to the brandy.
'How's work?' Russell asked, more out of politeness than from any hope of learning anything useful.
