‘They might not. And I’d rather be visiting Rosa in London than you in prison. Or putting flowers on your grave.’
Thursday morning, Russell was back in the Soviet zone, hoping to see the last two comrades before his meeting with Shchepkin the following day. Leissner’s office was at Silesian Station, but the man himself was in Dresden, dealing with some undefined railway emergency, and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. Manfred Haferkamp, the only man on his list without an administrative job, was at his desk in the newspaper office, but too busy to see Russell before the afternoon.
It was a reasonable morning for December, bright but not too chilly, and after scrounging a coffee in the office canteen Russell walked on up Neue Konigstrasse towards Friedrichshain, checking the various notice boards for any mention of Otto or Miriam. He came across several of Effi’s messages, but no one had added anything useful.
He walked past several ‘antique stores’ selling salvage from bombedout apartments. A couple of trackless tank hulks faced each other across the next junction, and a group of Soviet soldiers were taking turns having their picture taken in front of one, arm in arm with a young German woman. She was either enjoying herself or putting on a good act. On the other side of the street two white-haired German men were staring stony-faced at the changing tableaux, almost pulsing with repressed rage.
Realising Isendahl’s flat was nearby, Russell decided on a visit. He doubted he’d find anyone better informed when it came to the local Jews and communists, and a journalist should cultivate his sources.
Isendahl had obviously been writing — a cigarette was burning in the ashtray by the typewriter — but seemed pleased to be interrupted. ‘I tried to call you,’ was the first thing he said after bringing Russell in. ‘Is your telephone out of order?’
‘It comes and goes.’
‘Well there’s someone to meet you.’
‘Hersch? He came round a couple of evenings ago.’
Isendahl picked up his cigarette. ‘No, not Hersch. You remember the group I told you about — the Nokmim?’
‘Who could forget?’
‘There are two of them in Berlin. And they’d like to talk to an American journalist.’
‘It seems to be catching,’ Russell said wryly.
Isendahl smiled. ‘It’s a propaganda war for the Jewish soul. Revenge, Palestine or the good life in America.’
‘I know which I’d choose.’
‘You’re not Jewish.’
‘True. You didn’t include remaining in Berlin on your list of options.’
‘No. A few may stay, but…’ He shook his head. ‘Would you?’
‘Probably not, but Berlin will be the poorer.’
‘Without doubt.’
Something suddenly occurred to Russell. ‘Why are the Nokmim here? Are they planning some spectacular act of vengeance?’
‘You’ll have to ask them that. If you want to meet them, that is.’
Russell knew an ethical minefield when he saw one, but it was too good an opportunity to turn down. ‘I do,’ he told Isendahl.
‘There’ll be restrictions, of course. This has to be a secret meeting — they don’t want the authorities to know they’re here in Berlin.’
‘Of course,’ Russell agreed. It would, he realised, depend on what they intended. If the Nokmim told him they had plans to execute some deserving Nazi, then he could probably live with keeping it off the record. But if they outlined plans to poison the city’s water supply, then they could hardly expect him to hold his tongue. Anything in between, he would play it by ear. ‘When do they want to meet?’
Tonight’s a possibility.’
‘They’re not far away then?’
‘No.’
‘Where do they want to meet?’
Isendahl shrugged. ‘Here?’
‘Suits me.’ He gave Isendahl a quizzical look. ‘You haven’t made up your mind about these people, have you?’
‘No. At first I thought they were crazy, but I’m not so sure any more. Or maybe their craziness just seems more appropriate than other people’s sanity.’
Russell looked at him. ‘How about you? Have you ruled out any of the options on your list?’
‘Not really. I’m beginning to think certainty died with the Nazis.’
Manfred Haferkamp would not have agreed. He looked younger than his thirty-five years, which spoke well of his constitution after spending the last seven in Soviet and Nazi prison camps. He had light brown hair and bright blue eyes, and an air of absolute certainty that Lenin’s buddies would have found familiar.
The other interviewees had all mentally poked and prodded at Russell’s cover story, but Haferkamp just took it for granted that the world would be interested in what he was thinking. Russell had tried and failed to find some innocent means of introducing the subject of Stalin’s betrayal — the handing over to Hitler in 1941 of some fifty KPD victims of the Great Purges, Haferkamp included — but he needn’t have bothered. The German brought it up himself, and the ironic nature of the disclosure failed to conceal the residual bitterness.
He was nothing if not consistent in his view of the Soviets. The task of German communists was the same as it always had been — to mount a real revolution and build a communist Germany. And who was standing in their way? Their supposed allies. The Soviets wanted the Party in charge but no real change; what was needed was the people in charge and a real transformation. The Anti-Fascist committees which had sprung up all over Germany were communist-inclined and truly popular, which was why the Soviets were trying to squash them.
Russell played devil’s advocate — surely no one expected the Soviets to grant the KPD free rein, or not this soon at any rate? Not after the Germans had killed twenty million Soviet citizens.
‘I don’t expect them to ever do so of their own accord,’ was Haferkamp’s reply. ‘We have a real fight on our hands.’
‘Do other comrades share this view?’
‘Most of them, I’d say.’
‘And the leadership?’
Haferkamp made a disdainful noise. ‘The ones who came back from Moscow are just stooges.’
‘All right, but they still have to counter your arguments. And haven’t they said that they support a German road to socialism?’
‘They give it lip service, nothing more. And they don’t counter our arguments, or not in any constructive sense. They just throw insults about. The last piece I wrote, they accused me of “left-wing infantilism”. There was no discussion of the real issues.’
Russell noted with relief that Haferkamp had already aired his views in public. His report wouldn’t tell the NKVD anything they didn’t already know.
He asked if there was any chance of a home-grown challenge to the KPD’s current pro-Soviet leadership.
‘It’s bound to happen eventually. These people have been away too long. Listen, this is the German Communist Party, not some provincial branch of the CPSU. We fought against Hitler and, if we have to, we’ll fight against Stalin.’
Russell couldn’t resist one more question. ‘A statement like that would get you arrested in Moscow. Aren’t you worried that the same will happen here?’
Haferkamp’s blue eyes were cold and determined. ‘I’ve spent half my life in prison or exile. I’m not afraid of either.’
Russell thanked him for his time, and walked out into the night. He couldn’t fault the sense of anything
