Zoo Station

That was it, he thought. Ordinary Germans. The British and American tabloids liked series: The Daily Mail was currently doing one on European Troublespotshed read No. 4 (MemelEuropes Nagging Tooth) the previous week. He could do something similar about ordinary Germans. The Worker. The Housewife. The Sailor, the Doctor, the Schoolboy. Whatever, as Slaney would say. Interviewing them would provide the ideal cover for gathering the information Shchepkin wanted.

And the trips abroad? It was obviousGermanys Neighbours. Another series, this one looking at how people in the neighboring countries viewed Germany. He could travel all he wanted, talk to all the foreigners he wanted, without arousing suspicion. In Poland, Denmark, Holland, France, and what was left of Czechoslovakia. He could take Effi to Paris, visit his cousin Rainer in Budapest. He leaned back in his chair feeling pleased with himself. These two series would make him safer and richer. Things were looking up.

THE FEELING OF WELL-BEING lasted until the next day. After posting off his text and photos of the Chancellery opening he traveled across town to the University, where Julius Streicher was inaugurating the new chair. It wasnt, as Normanton had mischievously claimed, actually called the Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda, but it might have been. There was no sign of Streichers famous bullwhip, but his veins bulged just the way Russell remembered. The Nazi angrily denied the claim that National Socialism had put fetters on science or research. Restrictions, he insisted, had only been placed on the unruly. In fact, decency and sincerity had only obtained their freedom under National Socialism.

He had been ranting for an hour and a half when Russell left, and looked set for many hours more. Coming away, Russell knew what Normanton had meant about Mad Hatter material but, for once in his life, he felt more emotionally in tune with McKinleys simple disgust. Perhaps it was the fact that his next port of call was the Wiesners.

He picked up a Daily Mail while changing trams in Alexanderplatz and went through it with the two girls. They pored over the fashion pictures and ads, puzzled over the headline MAN WHO SLAPPED WOMAN MAYOR SAYS IM ASTOUNDED, and objected to the one which claimed ALL WOMEN ARE MAGPIES. A photograph of the King of Egypt out duck-shooting reduced Ruth to such a fit of giggles that her mother came out to see what was happening.

After the lesson she brought out the best coffee and cake Russell had tasted for months, and thanked him profusely for all he was doing. Her husband was well, she said, but her face clouded over when he asked about Albert. He was finding things difficult. He had the feeling she thought about saying more but decided against it.

Hed planned a few more hours of work before picking up Effi from the theater, but after Streicher and the Wiesners he felt more like punching someone. He found another Western on the Kudamm and sank into a world of huge skies, lofty canyons, and simple justice. Chewing gum for the heart.

Effi was tired and seemed as subdued as he felt. They walked slowly back to her flat, went to bed, and lay quietly in each others arms until she fell asleep. Her face grew younger in sleep, and she looked even more like Ruth Wiesner.

WEDNESDAY EVENING, RUSSELL WAS listening to dance band music on the BBC when McKinley knocked on his door and suggested a drink. While he collected his shoes from the bedroom the young American scanned his bookshelves. Half of these are banned, he said admiringly when Russell returned.

I havent got round to burning them yet, he replied, reaching for his coat.

Outside it was warmer than it had been, but there were specks of rain in the air. As they turned the corner onto Lindenstrasse McKinley took a sudden look over his shoulder, as if hed heard something.

What? Russell asked, seeing nothing.

McKinley shook his head. Nothing, he said.

They walked under the elevated U-bahn tracks at Hallesches Tor, and across Blucherplatz to the bar they used for their infrequent drinks together. It was almost empty. The barman yawned on his stool; two old men in the corner stared morosely at each other. McKinley bought them beersdark for Russell, light for himselfwhile Russell commandeered the only bowl with any nuts and carried it across to the table with the fewest standing pools. As he lowered himself into the seat it groaned alarmingly but held together. We have to find a new bar, he murmured.

McKinley tried his beer and smiled in satisfaction. Okay, he said. Now tell me about Schacht.

Hes dead in the water.

Okay, but why? I never understood economics.

Schacht does. Thats why.

What do you mean?

Russell thought about it. Schacht wants to see the economy run according to the laws of economics. He did when he was Finance Minister, and as long as hes in charge of the Reichsbank hell keep beating the same drum. The trade deficit is soaring, the Reichsbanks holdings of foreign exchange are dwindling, and theres a real possibility of another runaway inflation. The economys running out of control. Schacht would like to raise taxes and switch production from armaments to something that can be sold abroad. Some hope, eh? If Hitler and Goering have to choose between their armament program and the laws of economics, which do you think theyll choose?

But if the economy is in real trouble?

Nothing a war wont fix.

Ah.

Ah, indeed. Schacht, shall we say, has the narrow view. Hes assuming several years of peace, at the very least. Hitler, on the other hand, sees a choice. He can either do what Schacht wantsrein in the war machine, raise taxes, and get the real economy moving againor he can go for broke, and use the army to put things right. He sees all that wealth beyond his borders, just begging to be collected. Thats why Schacht has to go. Hitlers not going to risk higher taxes in Germany when he can steal the same money from conquered foreigners.

McKinley looked at him. I never know how serious you are. If this is such a big storySchacht going, I meanthen why isnt it on the front pages back home? If wars so absolutely certain, how come youre the only one who knows it?

Russell smiled. Just gifted, I guess. Another beer?

When he got back from the bar, McKinley was making notes in his little black book. Was your dance night a one-off, or are you going out with that girl from the embassy? Russell asked him.

McKinley blushed. Weve only been out twice. Merle, her name isyou know, like Merle Oberon. Her fathers just a storekeeper in Philadelphia but shes determined to really see life. She wants to see Europe while shes working here, and then the rest of the world if she can.

Good for her.

Youve traveled a lot, havent you?

Once upon a time.

Have you been to Russia?

Yes. I met my wife theremy ex-wife, I should say. At a Comintern youth conference in 1924. Lenin had just died and Trotsky hadn't noticed that the rug was gone from under his feet. It was a strange time, a sort of revolutionary cuspnot the moment it all went wrong, but the moment a lot of Party people realized that it already had. Does that make sense?

I suppose. Im hoping to go in March. The nineteenth Congress is being held in Moscow and Im trying to persuade the paper to send me.

Thatll be interesting, Russell said, though he doubted it would be.

Neither of them wanted another drink, and the nuts were all gone. It was raining outside, and they stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the neon shimmers in the puddles. As they passed under the elevated tracks a Warschauer Brucke train rumbled across, its sides streaming with water.

At the bottom of Lindenstrasse McKinley took a look back across the Belle Alliance Platz. I think Im being followed, he said, almost guiltily, in response to Russells inquiring look.

I cant see anyone, said Russell, staring into the rain.

No, neither can I, McKinley said, as they started up Lindenstrasse. Its more of a feeling. . . . I dont know. If they are following me, theyre really good.

Too many Thin Man movies, Russell thought. Whos they? he asked.

Oh, the Gestapo, I suppose.

Moving like wraiths isnt exactly the Gestapo style.

No, I suppose not.

Why would they be following you?

McKinley grunted. That story I told you about. That story I was going to tell you about, he corrected himself.

Im not sure I want to know anymore, Russell said. I dont want them following me.

It was meant as a joke, but McKinley didn't take it that way. Well, okay. ...

Russell was thinking about the car hed seen outside their block. He couldn't imagine the Gestapo being that patient, but there were other sharks in the Nazi sea. Look, Tyler. Whatever it is, if you really are being stalked by the authorities I should just drop it. No storys worth that sort of grief.

McKinley bristled. Would you have said that ten years ago?

I dont know. Ten years ago I didn't have the responsibilities I have now.

Maybe you should ask yourself whether you can still be an honest journalist with those sorts of responsibilities.

That made Russell angry. You havent cornered the market in honest journalism, for Gods sake.

Of course not. But I know what matters. That once mattered to you.

Truth has a habit of seeping out. Russell wasnt even convincing himself, which made him angrier still. Look, there are seventy-five million people out there keeping their heads down. Im just one of them.

Fine. If you want to keep your head down, wait until it all blows overwell . . . fine. But I cant do that.

Okay.

They walked the rest of the way in silence.

THE CONVERSATION WITH MCKINLEYor, more precisely, the sense of letting himself down that it engenderedlurked with annoying persistence at the back of Russells mind over the next few days. He finished his first article for Pravdaa paean to organized leisure activitiesand delivered it himself to the smiling blonde at 102 Wilhelmstrasse. He received a wire from his US agent bubbling with enthusiasm for the two series. And, by special delivery, he received the letter he had asked Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist for. It was typed rather than written, which was something of a disappointment, but the content left little to be desired: John Russell, it seemed, had full authority from the Propaganda Ministry and Ministry of the Interior to ask such questions as would widen the foreign understanding of National Socialism and its achievements. Those shown the letter were asked and expected to offer him all the assistance they could. All of which would have felt much better if he hadn't seen the disappointment in McKinleys eyes.

The weekend gave him a welcome break from worrying about his journalistic integrity. On Saturday afternoon he and Paul went to the zoo. They had been there so many times that they had a routinefirst the parrot house, then the elephant walk and the snakes, a break for ice cream, the big cats and, finally, the picce de resistance, the gorilla who spat, with often devastating accuracy, at passersby. After the zoo, they strolled back down the Kudamm, looking in shop windows and eventually stopping for cake. Russell still found the Hitler Youth uniform slightly offputting, but he was gradually getting used to it.

Sunday, a rare treatan outing to the fair at the end of Potsdamerstrasse with both Paul and Effi. Getting them together was always harder than the actual experience of their being together: Both worried overmuch that theyd be in the others way. It was obvious that Paul liked Effi, and equally obvious why. She was willing to try anything at least once, was able to act any age she thought appropriate, and assumed that he could, too. She was, in fact, most of the things his mother wasnt and never had been.

After two hours of circling, sliding, dropping, and whirling they took a cab to Effis theater, where she showed Paul around the stage and backstage areas. He was particularly impressed by the elevator and trapdoor in mid-stage which brought the Valkyries up to heaven each evening. When Russell suggested that they should build one for Goebbels at the Sportspalast, Effi gave him a warning look, but Paul, he noticed, was mercifully unable to suppress his amusement.

The only sad note of the weekend was Pauls news that he would be away for the next weekend at a Hitler Youth adventure camp in the Harz Mountains. He expressed regret at not seeing his dad, and particularly at missing Herthas next home game, but Russell could see he was really looking forward to the camp. Russell was particularly upset because he would be away himself on the following weekend, delivering his first oral report to Shchepkin. And on that weekend he would also be missing Effis end-of-run partyBarbarossa had apparently raised all the national consciousness it was going to raise.

EARLY ON MONDAY MORNING, he took the train to Dresden for a one-night stay. It was only a two-hour journey, and he had several contacts there: a couple of journalists on the city paper; an old friend of Thomass, also in the paper business; an old friend of his and Ilses, once a union activist, now a teacher. Ordinary Germansif such people existed.

He saw them all over the two days, and talked to several others they recommended. He also spent a few hours in cafes and bars, joining or instigating conversations when he could, just listening when that seemed more appropriate. As his train rattled northward on Tuesday evening he sat in the buffet car with a schnapps and tried to make sense of what he had heard. Nothing surprising. Ordinary Germans felt utterly powerless, and resigned to feeling so for the foreseeable future. The government would doubtless translate that resignation as passive support, and to some extent they were right. There was certainly no sense that anyone had a practical alternative to offer.

When it came to Germanys relations with the rest of the world, most people seemed pleasantly surprised that they still had any. The Rhineland, the Anschluss, the Sudetenlandit was as if Hitler had deliberately driven his train across a series of broken points, butthanks be to Godthe train was still on the track. Surely, soon, he would pull the damn thing to a halt. Once Memel and Danzig were back in the fold, once the Poles had given Germany an extra-territorial corridor across their own corridor, then that would be that. Hitler, having expanded the Reich to fit the Volk, would rest on his laurels, a German hero for centuries to come.

They all said it, and some of them even believed it.

Their own daily lives were getting harder. Not dramatically, but relentlessly. The economic squeeze was on. Most people were working longer hours for the same pay; many ordinary goods were growing slightly harder to find. The relief which had followed the return of full employment had dissipated.

Children seemed to be looming ever-larger in their parents minds: the demands in time and loyalty of the Hitler Youth and BDM, the years exile of the arbeitsdienst, the prospect of seeing them marched off to war. If Ordinary Germans wanted anything, it was peace. Years of the stuff, years in which they could drive their peoples cars down their new autobahns.

Only one man mentioned the Jews, and then only in a dismissive preamblenow that the Jewish question is nearing solution. What did he mean? Russell asked. Well, the man replied, theyll all be gone soon, wont they? I have nothing against them personally, but a lot of people have, and theyll be happier elsewhere, thats obvious.

THE WIESNERS WOULD HAVE agreed with him. The girls seemed subdued when he saw them on Wednesday morning, polite and willing as ever, but less perky, as if more bad news had just descended on the household. One reason became clear when Frau Wiesner asked for a word with him after the lesson.

She wanted to ask him a favor, she said. She didn't want her husband to know but, could he, Russell, have a word with Albert. He was behaving recklessly, just saying whatever came into his mind, associating with . . . well, she didn't know who, but . . . he wouldn't listen to his father, she knew that, and he wouldn't listen to her, but Russell, well, he was outside it all: He wasnt a Jew, wasnt a Nazi, wasnt even a German. He knew what was happening, how dangerous things were. They were working on getting visas, but it took so long. Albert said they were dreaming, theyd never get them, but he didn't know that, and he was putting the girls future at risk as well as his own. . . .

She ran out of words, just looked at him helplessly.

Russells heart sunk at the prospect, but he agreed to try.

Ill make sure hes here on Friday, after the lesson, she said.

THAT EVENING, HE WAS getting his Dresden notes in order when Tyler McKinley knocked on his door. Ive come to apologize, the American said.

What for? Russell asked.

You know. The other night.

Oh that. Forget it.

Okay. How about a drink?

Russell rubbed his eyes. Why not?

They went to their usual bar, sat at the same table. Russell thought he recognized the stains from the previous week. His companion seemed relieved that he wasnt holding a grudge, and was drinking dark beer for a change. The bar was more crowded than usual, with a population reaching toward double figures.

McKinley got out his pipe and tin of Balkan mixture. What got you started in journalism? Russell asked.

Oh, I always wanted to be one. Long as I can remember. The American smiled reminiscently. When I was a kid I used to spend the summers with my mothers folks in Nugget Cityyouve probably never heard of it. Its a small town in California. Grew up in the Gold Rush days, been shrinking ever since. My granddad ran the local paper in his spare time. Just a weekly. Two pages. Four if something had actually happened. I used to help him with stuff. On print day wed both come home covered in ink. I loved it. He picked up the tobacco tin, and put it down again. Granddad and Grandma both died when I was twelve, so all that stopped. I tried offering my services to the San Francisco papers, but they didn't want kids hanging around in their print rooms. Not surprising, really. Anyway, I got involved with my high school paper, and then the college paper, and eventually got a job at the Examiner. Three years in sports, three on the city desk, and I finally got myself sent to Europe. He grinned. I still love it.

What did your family think? Russell asked. He meant about coming to Europe, but McKinley, busy loading his pipe, answered a different question.

My father was furious. He has his own law firm, and I was supposed to sign up, start at the bottom and eventually take over. He thinks journalists are grubby little hacks, you know, like The Front Page. His eyes lit up. Did you know theyre remaking that, with a woman reporter? Rosalind Russell, I think. And Cary Grants her editor. I read about it in one of Merles Hollywood magazines.

Your Dad still furious?

Not so much. I mean, theyre happy enough to see me when I come home. He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. Its funny, he added, my sister seems angrier than my father.

What does she do?

Nothing much, as far as I can tell. Shed make a much better lawyer than I would, but . . . well, you know . . . Dad would never take a woman into the firm. He struck a match, applied it to the bowl, and sucked in. The bowl glowed, and a noxious plume of smoke escaped from his lips.

Thats enough to make anyone resentful, Russell said. Not being offered something you want is bad enough; someone else turning it down just adds salt to the wound.

McKinley looked at him as if he were a magician. You know, that never occurred to me.

When did you last go home? Russell asked.

Oh, the Thanksgiving before last. But I write quite often.

Russell thought about his own family. His mother in America, his half-brother in Leeds. Bernard was well over fifty now, the single offspring of his fathers brief liaison with the army nurse who treated himin more ways than oneafter the Gordon campaign in Sudan. Russell hadn't seen him in years, and had no particular desire to do so. There were a couple of uncles in England, one aunt in America, cousins dotted here and there. He hadn't seen any of them either. It was time he took Paul to England, he thought.

He looked at McKinley, happily puffing away at his pipe. Do you never get homesick? he asked.

Sure, sometimes. Days like today I miss the sunshine. I know everyone thinks San Francisco is always shrouded in fog, but it isnt. Its still the loveliest city Ive ever seen. He smiled. But this is where the story is.

Unfortunately.

Well, yes. I was wondering. . . . Im arranging this interview next weekI dont know which evening yetand I wondered if youd be willing to come along. My German is pretty good, but yours is obviously a lot better, and the only time I met this woman I could hardly understand anything she said. And I really cant afford to misunderstand anything she tells me.

Who is she?

McKinley hesitated. She used to work for the Health Ministry.

This is the big story?

McKinley grinned briefly. You could say that. You remember that story I did on asylums last year?

Russell did. It hadn't been at all bad. The American had managed to raise quite a few awkward questions, and it was hardly his fault that no one else had demanded any answers. I remember, he said.

Well, this woman was one of the people I interviewed. She told me a pack of lies, as far as I could tell. And then last week she contacted me out of the blue, said she was willing to give me some information about some of the other stuff Ive heard.

About the asylums?

Yes and no. Look, he said, looking around. I dont want to talk about it here. Lets go back to the house.

Okay, Russell agreed. He was beginning to feel intrigued, despite himself.

As they walked back to Neuenburgerstrasse he kept an eye open for possible shadows, and noticed that McKinley was doing the same. None crept into view, and the street outside their block was empty of cars.

The Knauer boy, McKinley said, once they were ensconced in Russells two armchairs. I dont think his parents gave him a Christian name. He was blind, had only one arm, and part of one leg was missing. He was also, supposedly, an idiot. A medical idiot, I mean. Mentally retarded. Anyway, his father wrote to Hitler asking him to have the boy killed. Hitler got one of the doctors employed by the KdF to confirm the facts, which they did. He then gave the childs own doctors permission to carry out a mercy-killing. The boy was put to sleep. He paused to re-stoke his pipe.

Thats a sad story, Russell said cautiously.

Theres two things, McKinley said. Hitler has never made any secret of his plan to purify the race by sterilizing the mentally handicapped and all the other so-called incurables. And the Nazis are always going on about how much it costs to keep all these people in asylums. They actually use it as an example in one of their school textbooksyou know, how many peoples cars you could build with what it costs to feed and clothe ten incurables for a year. Put the two things together and you get one easy answer: Kill them. It purifies the race and saves money.

Yes, but. . . .

I know. But if the Knauer boy is expendable, why not the others? About one hundred thousand of them, according to the latest figures. Tell the parents theyre doing it to cut short the childs suffering, give them an excuse not to have the problem anymore. In fact, dont even tell the parents. Spare their suffering by saying that the child died of natural causes.

One hundred thousand of them?

Perhaps not, but. . . .

Okay, it sounds feasible. It sounds like the Nazis, for Christs sake. But are they actually doing it? And if they are, do you have any proof that theyre doing it?

There are all sorts of indications. . . .

Not good enough.

Plans, then.

On paper?

Not exactly. Look, will you come and see this woman with me?

Russell knew what the sensible answer was, but McKinley had him hooked. Okay, he said, checking his watch and realizing that hed be late for meeting Effi.

Once out on Lindenstrasse he decided to spend some of his anticipated earnings on a cab. As it swung around the Belle Alliance Platz and headed up Koniggratzerstrasse toward Potsdamer Bahnhofplatz, he watched the people on the sidewalks and wondered how many of them would protest the mercy killing of 100,000 children. Would that be one step too far, or just another milestone in the shedding of a nations scruples?

RUSSELL DIdn't EXPECT TO find many similarities between Tyler McKinley and Albert Wiesner. On the one hand, a boy from a rich family and country with a rewarding job and instant access to a ticket out of Nazi Germany. On the other, a boy without work or prospects of any kind, whose next forwarding address was likely to be Sachsenhausen. Russell, however, soon found himself comparing the two young men. The characters and personalities of both of them had been formed in successful families and, it seemed, in reaction to powerful fathers. Both seemed blessed with enough youthful naivete to render them irritating and likable in turn.

Frau Wiesner produced her son at the end of Fridays lesson. For his mothers and sisters sake the boy made a token effort to mask his sullen resentment at this unnecessary intrusion on his time, but once out of the door he swiftly abandoned any pretence of amiability.

Lets get some coffee, Russell said.

No cafes will serve us, was Alberts reply.

Well, then, lets go for a walk in the park.

Albert said nothing, but kept pace at Russells side as they strolled down Greifswaldstrasse toward the northern entrance of the Friedrichshain, the park which gave the whole district its name. Once inside the main gates Russell led them past the Marchenbrunnen, a series of artificial waterfalls surrounded by sculptured characters from fairytales. He had brought Paul to see it several years ago, when Hansel and Gretelthe figures in the foregroundcould still conjure up nighttime terrors of wicked witches, as Ilse had bitterly complained on the following day.

Albert had a more topical agenda in mind. The witch must have been Jewish, he said.

If she wasnt then, she will be now, Russell agreed.

They walked on into the park, down a wide path beneath the leafless trees. Albert seemed unconcerned by the silence between them, and made a point of catching the eyes of those walking in the opposite direction.

Russell had mentally rehearsed a few lines of adult wisdom on the U-bahn, but theyd all sounded ridiculous. Your mother wanted me to talk to you, he said at last. But I have no idea what to say. You and your family are in a terrible situation. And, well, I guess shes frightened that youll just make things worse for yourself.

And them.

Yes, and them.

I do realize that.

Yes. . . . This is a waste of time, Russell thought. They were approaching one of the parks outdoor cafes. Lets have a coffee here, he said.

They wont serve me.

Just take a seat. Ill get them. He walked up to the kiosk window and looked at the cakes. They had mohrenkopfen, balls of sponge with custard centers, chocolate coats, and whipped cream hats. Two of them and two coffees, he told the middle-aged man behind the counter.

The man was staring at Albert. Hes a Jew, he said finally, as if reaching the end of an exhaustive mental process. We dont serve Jews.

Hes English, Russell said. As am I. He showed the man his Ministry of Propaganda accreditation.

He looks Jewish, the man said, still staring at Albert, who was now staring back. Why dont you just take out your circumcised prick and wave it at him, Russell thought sourly. He may be Jewish for all I know, Russell told the man, but theres no law against serving English Jews.

There isnt?

No, there isnt.

The man just stared at him.

Do you need to hear it from a policeman?

Not if you say so. He gave Albert one final glare and concentrated on pouring out the coffee.

God help us, Russell thought. He could understand Alberts reaction, no matter how counterproductive it was. But this manwhat was he so annoyed about? There were no SS men lounging at his tables, no ordinary citizens on the brink of racial apoplexy. Why did he care so much that a Jew was sitting at one of his rusty tables? Did he really think Jewish germs would rub off on his cups and saucers?

The coffee was spilled in the saucers, but it didn't seem worth complaining. He carried them back to the table, where Albert was now slouched in his chair, legs splayed out in defiance. Russell resisted the temptation to say sit up in your chair and handed him a mohrenkopf. His eyes lit up.

They concentrated on eating for a few minutes.

Do you really think theres any chance well get visas? Albert asked eventually, allowing the merest hint of hope to mar his cynicism.

Yes, Russell said, with more conviction than he felt. It may take a while, but why not? The Nazis dont want you, so why shouldn't they let you go?

Because theyre even more interested in hurting us?

Russell considered that. It had, unfortunately, the ring of truth. The way I see it, he said, you dont have many options. You can fight back and most likely end up in a camp. Or dead. Or you can try and work their system.

Albert gave him a pitying look. There are half a million of us, he said. At the current rate itll take seven years for us all to get visas.

Russell had no answer.

And how long before were at war? Albert persisted.

Who knows. . . .

A year at most. And thatll put a stop to emigration. What do you think theyll do with us then? They wont let us work for a living now, and that wont change. Theyll either leave us to starve or put us in work campsslave labor. Some of my friends think theyll just kill us. And they may be right. Whos going to stop them?

He could add Albert to the list of people hed underestimated, Russell thought.

My fathers Iron Cross was First Class, Albert said. Unlike our beloved Fuhrers.

Russell stared out at the winter trees, and the roof of the old Krankenhaus Hospital rising above them to the south. If youre rightif your friends are rightthen all the more reason not to jeopardize your chancesyour familys chancesof getting out.

I know that, Albert said. But what about the others? One familys success is another familys failure.

Russell had no answer to that either.

But thanks for the coffee and cake, Albert said.

LYING IN BED UNABLE to sleep, Russell thought about Papa Wiesners Iron Cross First Class. It wasnt a medal given to manyhe must have done something pretty special. He supposed he should have realized that a Jew of Wiesners age would have fought in the war, but it hadn't occurred to him. Goebbelss propaganda was obviously working.

He wondered which front Wiesner had served on. He wondered, as he often did with Germans of his own age, whether theyd been facing him across those hundred yards of churned-up meadow near Merville. He sometimes wondered whether Frau Heideggers repeated accusation that he might have shot her husband was simply her way of warding off the possibility that he really had.

He had once thought that he was over the war, that time and circumstance had turned the horror into anger, the anger into politics, and the politics into cynicism, leaving only the abiding belief that people in authority tended, by and large, to be incompetent, uncaring liars. The war, by this accounting, had been the latest demonstration of a depressingly eternal truth. Nothing more.

Hed been fooling himself. All those whod been in that particular place at that particular time had been indelibly marked by the experience, and he was no exception. You never shook it off completelywhatever it was it had left you with, whether nerves in tatters, an endless rage, or a joy-sapping cynicism. And the memories never seemed to fade. That sudden waft of decomposing flesh, the rats eyes reflected in the shell-burst, the sight of ones own rotting feet. The unnerving beauty of a flare cracking the night sky open. Being splashed with someone elses brain, slapped in the face by death.

Jimmy Sewell was his name. After helping carry what was left of him back to the medical station, Russell had somehow ended up with the letter he had just written to his girlfriend. Things were looking up, Sewell had told her, now that the Yanks were arriving in force. It had been late June or early July, 1918. One of a string of sunny days in northern France.

He and Razor Wilkinson had hitched a ride to Hazebrouck that evening, and gotten pissed out of their minds in a dingy back street bar. The more he drank, the more his brain-spattered face seemed to itch, and he had ended up wading into the River Lys and frantically trying to wash himself clean. Razor had stood on the bank laughing at him, until he realized that Russell was crying, and then hed started crying too.

Twenty-one years ago, but Russell could still feel the current tugging at his legs. He levered himself out of bed and went to the window. Berlin was sleeping, but he could imagine Albert Wiesner lying in bed on his back, hands clenched around the blankets, staring angrily at the ceiling.

WITH PAUL OFF ON his Jungvolk adventure weekend, Russell and Effi spent most of Saturday morning in bed. Russell slipped on some clothes to bring back pastries and coffee from the shop around the corner, and slipped them off again when making love seemed more urgent than eating. Half an hour later Effi re-warmed the coffee on her tiny stove, and brought it back to the bedroom.

Tell me about the film part, Russell said, once they were propped up against the headboard. Effi had told him about the offer the night before, but had been too tired to go into details.

They start shooting on the thirteenth, she said. Two weeks on Monday. Marianne Immel had the part, but shes sickpregnant, probably, though no ones said so. They want me to audition on Tuesday morning, but Ill have to be pretty bad to miss outthey wont have time to find anyone else.

Whats it called?

Mother. And thats me. Its a big part.

Can I see the script?

Of course, but let me tell you the story first. She licked a pastry crumb from her upper lip and pushed her hair back behind her ears. I am Gerta, she said. I have a job in a factory, an important administrative job. I almost run the place for the owner. I like my work and Im good at it.

But only a woman, Russell murmured.

Indeed. My husband Hans has a good job on the railways. And needless to say hes active in the SA, very active in fact. Hans earns more than enough money to support the familywe have two children by the way, a sixteen-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boyand he rather thinks that I should give up work and look after them. But hes too kind-hearted to insist, and I keep on working.

I sense tragedy in the offing.

Ah, I should add that my boss fancies me no end. I dont fancy himhe looks decidedly Jewish by the waybut Hans is always away on Party businessyou know, organizing parades, running youth camps and generally saving the nationand the boss is kind enough and smooth enough to be good company, so I flirt with him a little and let him buy me pastries. Like you, in fact, she added, looking at Russell.

Do you flaunt your beautiful breasts at him? Russell asked.

Certainly not, she said, pulling her nightdress closed. Now concentrate.

Ill try.

One day she and the boss go to visit a factory hes thinking of buying, and on the way back they decided to stop off at a guesthouse with a famous view. On the way down the mountain his car gets a flat tire, and shes late getting home. Meanwhile, son and daughter have arrived home from school, and cant get in. They wait for a while, but its rainingbuckets of the stuffand son already has a cold. Daughter notices that one of the upstairs windows is ajar, and decides to climb up and in.

Only she doesnt make it.

How did you guess?

Dead or just paralyzed?

Oh, dead. Though I suppose having her in a wheelchair would provide a constant reminder of my guilt. Which is, of course, enormous. I give up my job, despite the pleas of my boss. But the guilt is still too much, so I try and kill myself. And guess who saves me?

Son?

Exactly. He comes home with a couple of Jungvolk buddies to find me head down on the kitchen table with an empty bottle of pills. They rush me to the hospital on the cart theyve been using to collect old clothes for Winter Relief.

And when you come round you realize that you can only atone for your daughters death by becoming the perfect stay-at-home mother.

Hans comes to collect me, takes me home, and tells me he cant bear me being so unhappy and that I can go back to work if I want to. Whereupon I give the speech of my life, castigating him for letting me have my own way in the past, and saying that all I really want to be is a wife and mother. He weeps with joy. In fact we both do. The end.

It does bring a tear to the eye, Russell said. Is it going to make you famous?

Shouldn't think so. But the moneys good, and it will involve some acting.

But no breast-flaunting.

I only do that for you, she said, pulling the nightdress open.

AFTER HED WALKED EFFI to the theater for the Barbarossa matinee, Russell ate a snack lunch at the Zoo Station buffet, climbed up to the elevated platforms, and sat watching the trains for a while. It was something he and Paul did on occasion, marveling at the long lines of carriages snaking in across the bridge from Cologne or Paris or the wonderfully named Hook of Holland. Today, though, he waited in vain for a continental express. There were only the neat little electric trains of the Stadtbahn, fussing in and out of the local platforms.

He walked around the northern wall of the zoo and, for want of something better to do, headed home along the Landwehrkanal. It had been a long time since hed spent a Saturday afternoon in Berlin alone, and he felt unexpectedly disoriented by the experience. To make matters worse it was the sort of winter day he hated: gray, damp, and almost insultingly warm. Even the canal smelled worse than usual.

When he reached home Frau Heidegger was lying in wait. Schachts long-expected dismissal as President of the Reichsbank had been all over the front pages that morning, and she was worried about how this might affect share prices. My Jurgens family gave me some Farben shares after the war, she explained, after press-ganging him in for coffee. Just a few, you understand, but I always thought they might come in handy in my old age.

Russell reassured her that Schachts dismissal was unlikely to have any lasting effect. Unlike the coming war, he added to himself. Or her coffee.

The Fuhrers angry with the Czechs, she said from the kitchen, as if following his thoughts.

What about? Russell asked.

Does it matter? she asked, coming in with the familiar pot.

No, he agreed. He was often surprised by Frau Heideggers perceptiveness, and surprised that he could still be surprised.

I told my brother-in-law what you said about air defenses, she went on. He said he hoped you were right.

So do I, Russell agreed again.

After climbing the stairs to his apartment he wished he hadn't: The combination of muggy weather and full throttle heating had made it feel like the hot room of a Turkish bath. He tried opening a window, but there was no welcome hint of cooler air. He tried reading, but nothing seemed to stick.

He went out again. It was just after fourhe had about six hours to kill. He walked south down Belle-Alliance Strasse to Viktoria Park, climbed to the brow of the Kreuzberg, and found an empty bench with a view across the city. There was even a slight breeze.

The sky darkened, and his mood seemed to darken with it.

He thought about Effi and the film. Theyd had fun that morning, but it was a pretty disgusting piece of work. Did she have any qualms about doing it? She hadn't said so. He couldn't believe she needed the money, and hed heard her views on the Nazi attitude toward women often enough. So why was she doing it? Should he ask her? Was it possible to ask someone a question like that without making it an accusation?

He decided it wasnt, but later that night, halfway down an empty street on their way home from the theater, he asked it anyway.

To make a living? she answered sarcastically.

But you dont. . . . he said, and stopped himself. But not soon enough.

Lots of people think that because my family is rich, Im rich, she said coldly. I took the flat when they offered it. Ten years ago. And I havent taken anything since.

I know.

Then what. . . .

He sighed. Its just so sordid. I hate the idea of you playing in something . . . in playing a part that goes against everything you believe.

That just makes it more of a challenge.

Yes, but the better you do it, the more convincing you are, the more women will think they have to accept all this nonsense.

She stopped in her tracks. Are we talking about my work or yours? she asked. How about your paean to Strength Through Joy cruises? Or your car for every German worker piece. Youve hardly been cutting the ground from under their feet.

He bit back the surge of anger. She was right.

They both were.

THE NEXT AFTERNOON, HE went to the Plumpe. Paul had asked him for a program, and with Effi visiting her family that seemed a good enough reason for going. He had Thomas and Joachim for company, but he missed Paul, and the game itself was direa dull 1-1 draw with Berliner SV. Thomas was subduedlike Frau Heidegger and 75 million other Germans hed noticed the telltale flurry of government antagonism toward the Czechs. Sandwiched between SV supporters on the southbound U-bahn they arranged to have lunch on the following Thursday.

Back at the apartment he found a courier delivery waiting for him: a copy of the previous days Pravda, complete with his first article. His Russian wasnt that good, but as far as he could tell they hadn't altered anything. Approved by the SD, approved by the NKVD, he thought out loud. I should have been a diplomat. More gratifying still was the accompanying bank draft in Reichsmarks.

There was also the promised list of suggestions for future articles. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentencewho thought up this stuff?spelled Cracow. Russell groaned. Two 16-hour train journeys, just for a chat with Shchepkin. At least, he hoped it was just for a chat.

Zygmunts Chapel

THIS IS IT, McKinley said, with the sort of enthusiasm others reserved for stumbling across El Dorado. The object of his excitement was a short cul-de-sac of decaying tenement blocks wedged between railway arches, small industrial workshops, and the Neukollner Schiffahrtkanal. One forlorn streetlight threw a faint yellow glow over glistening brickwork and rusty iron. It looked, Russell thought, like the sort of place a particularly sentimental German communist would come to die.

They had been looking for it for almost an hour, ever since playing hide-and-seek with their probably imaginary Gestapo tail in the Neukolln branch of the KaDeWe department store. The object of their quest had, according to McKinley, told them to make sure they were not followed, and he had done his best to oblige, leading Russell into the store by the main entrance and out through the kitchens, pursued only by the shouts of an enraged chef. They had then headed east on foot, turning this way and that down a succession of rapidly darkening and profoundly unwelcoming streets. Russell had expected streams of workers returning home, but they had only come across a few, and McKinleys requests for navigational assistance had been met with either guarded suspicion or outright hostility. Russell had wondered whether the young American could feel the money burning a hole in his pocket. There were lights behind the curtains of the residential streets, but they felt far away.

This street, Schonlanker Strasse, was no exception. The block they were looking for was the last, pushed up against the elevated tracks of what was probably a freight line. As they reached the entrance another source of light came into viewthe red glow of a signal hanging in the darkness.

The limp swastika hanging over the entrance looked like it hadn't been washed since 1933. Entering the dimly lit hall, they found the concierges door. McKinley tried two taps with the door-knockertoo softly, Russell thought, but the door swung open almost immediately. A middle-aged woman with a rather striking face ushered them inside and quickly closed the door behind them.

Who is this? she asked McKinley with an angry gesture toward Russell. She had a thick Rhenish accent, which explained why the American had so much trouble understanding her.

Hes a friend. He speaks better German than I do, McKinley explained, rather in the manner of someone reassuring a foolish child.

She gave Russell another look, thought for a moment, then shrugged. Come through, she said shortly.

The living room was clean but almost bare. There were no comfortable chairs, only a couple of stools beside a small table and what looked like homemade cushions on the floor. A tattered but once-expensive rug occupied the center of the wooden floor. A girl of around five or six was sitting on it, leaning forward over a drawing she was working on. She didn't look up when they entered.

Thats Marietta, the woman said. She gets very absorbed in what shes doing, she added, as if she needed to explain the childs lack of reaction.

Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jurissen. She was younger than hed first thoughtaround 35, probablybut she looked both exhausted and malnourished. Only the eyes, a penetrating gray, seemed full of energy.

Please take the chairs, she said, but McKinley insisted that she take one. He remained standing, his lanky bulk seeming somewhat incongruous in the center of the room. Apparently realizing as much, he retreated to a wall.

Have you brought the money? Frau Jurissen asked, almost apologetically. This was not a woman who was used to poverty, Russell thought. This is the only work I can do and look after her all day.

McKinley produced his wallet, and counted what looked like several hundred Reichsmarks into her hand. She looked at the pile for a moment, and then abruptly folded the notes over, and placed them in the pocket of her housecoat. So, where shall I begin? she asked.

McKinley wasted no time. You said in your letter that you could not keep silent when childrens lives were at stake, he said, pronouncing each word with the utmost care. What made you think they were?

She placed her hands on the table, one covering the other. I couldn't believe it at first, she said, then paused to get her thoughts in order. I worked for the Brandenburg health ministry for over ten years. In the medical supplies department. I visited hospitals and asylums on a regular basis, checking inventories, anticipating demandsyou understand?

McKinley nodded.

After the Nazi takeover most of the women in my department were encouraged to resign, but my husband was killed in an accident a few weeks after I had Marietta, and they knew I was the only bread-winner in the family. They wanted me to find another husband, of course, but until that happened . . . well, I was good at my job, so they had no real excuse to fire me. She looked up. Im sorry. You dont need to know all this. She looked across at her daughter, who had still shown no sign of recognition that anyone else was in the room. I suppose I knew from the start that she wasnt, well, ordinary, but I told myself she was just very shy, very self-absorbed. . . . I mean, some adults are like thatthey hardly notice that anyone else exists. She sighed. But I got to the point where I knew I had to do something, take her to see someone. I knew that might mean shed be sterilized, but . . . well, if she stayed the way she is now, shed never notice whether she had any children or not. Anyway, I took her to a clinic in Potsdam, and they examined her and tested her and said they needed to keep her under observation for a few weeks. I didn't want to leave her there, but they told me not be selfish, that Marietta needed professional care if she was ever to come out of her shell.

Did they threaten you? McKinley asked.

No, not really. They were just impatient with me. Shocked that I didn't immediately accept that they knew best.

Like most doctors, Russell murmured.

Perhaps. And maybe they were completely genuine. Maybe Marietta does need whatever it is they have to offer.

So you took her away? McKinley asked.

I had to. Just two days after I left her in the clinic I was at the Falkenheide asylumyou know it? Its just outside Furstenwalde. I was in the staff canteen, checking through their orders over a cup of coffee when I became aware of the conversation at the next table. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't. And they were speaking quite normallythere was nothing clandestine about it. In a way that was what was most shocking about itthey assumed that their topic of conversation was common knowledge. As far as the asylum staff were concerned, that is. She paused, and glanced across at Marietta. What they were talking about was a letter which had been sent out by the Ministry of Justice to all directors of asylums. That letter wanted the directors opinions on how they should change the law to allow the killing of incurable children. Should they announce a new law, or should they issue administrative decrees and keep the public in ignorance? This is what the people at the next table were debating, even joking about. Three of them were doctors I recognized, and the woman looked like a senior nurse.

This was all spelled out? Russell asked incredulously. He instinctively trusted hercould see no reason for her to liebut her scene in the canteen sounded like one of those stage conversations written to update the audience.

No, she said, giving Russell an indignant look. They were talking more about how the parents would react, whether they would prefer to hear that their children had simply died of whatever illness they had. It was only when I read the letter that it all made sense.

How? Where? McKinley asked excitedly.

Like I said, I was in that job a long time. I was on good terms with people in all the asylums. I knew I had to see the letter for myself, and I waited for a chance. A few days later a director was called out early, and I pretended I had to work late. I found the letter in his office.

I wish youd kept it, McKinley said, more to himself than her.

I did, she said simply.

You did! McKinley almost shouted, levering himself off the wall hed been leaning against. Where is it? Can we see it?

Not now. I dont have it here.

How much do you need? Russell asked.

Another five hundred Reichsmarks? The question mark was infinitesimal.

Thats McKinley began.

Good business sense, Russell completed for him. She needs the money, he added in English.

Yes, of course, McKinley agreed. I just dont know how. . . . But Ill get it. Shall I come back here? he asked her.

No, she said. Its too risky for me. Send the money to the posterestante on Heiligegeiststrasse. When I get it, Ill send you the letter.

Itll be there by tomorrow evening, McKinley said, as he printed out the Neuenburgerstrasse address.

Russell stood up. Did you have any trouble getting Marietta back? he asked Theresa Jurissen.

Yes, she said. They wouldn't let me take her. I had to steal my own child. Thats why were here in this place.

They all looked down at the girl. Her drawing looked like a forest after a hurricane had hit it. I wish you luck, Russell said.

He and McKinley reached the street as a coal train thundered over the arches, and set about retracing their steps. It was raining now, the streets even emptier, the rare neighborhood bar offering a faint splash of light and noise. They didn't speak until they reached the tram stop on Berlinerstrasse.

If you get this story out, itll be your last one from Germany, Russell said.

McKinley grinned at him. Worth it, though, dont you think?

Russell saw the excitement in the young Americans eyes, like an echo of his own younger self. He felt a pang of envy. Yes, I do, he agreed.

RUSSELLS FIRST PORT OF CALL on the following morning was about ten kilometers, and several worlds, away from Schonlankerstrasse. The villa, just around the corner from the State Archive in the wealthy suburb of Dahlem, was surrounded by trees full of singing birds, most of whom were probably warbling their gratitude to the Fuhrer. In Schonlankerstrasse it was probably still raining in the dark, but here the sun shone down out of a clear blue sky. The coffee had not been as good since the Jewish cook had been allowed to leave, but everyone had to make sacrifices.

His pupil Greta was a sixteen-year-old with no interest in learning English. She did, however, like practicing her flirting techniques on him. Today it was a new wide-eyed expression which she seemed to think was appealing. She was, he had to admit, a lesson in the nature of beauty. When hed first set eyes on her, hed been struck by how gorgeous she was. After eighteen months of getting to know her, he found her marginally more attractive than Herman Goering. Her grasp of English had hardly improved at all in that time, but that didn't seem to worry anybody. Her father, a doctor of similar age to Wiesner, had not been cursed with the same tainted blood.

An hour later, richer in Reichsmarks but poorer in spirit, Russell retraced his steps down the sunny avenues to the Dahlem-Dorf Ubahn station. Changing at Wittenbergplatz, he bought a paper at a platform kiosk and glanced through it on the ride to Alexanderplatz. The Swiss were the latest target: As neutrals, a lead writer announced, they should refrain from expressing opinions about other countries and refuse to take in refugees. The Germans, on the other hand, should get their colonies back. Three reasons were given. The first was inalienable right, whatever that was. The second was economic need, which presumably came under the inalienable right to loot. The third, which made Russell laugh out loud, was Germanys right to share in the education of backward peoples. Thanks to her racial principles, the writer announced confidently, the Third Reich stands in the front rank of Powers in this respect. Russell thought about this for a while, and decided it could only mean that Germany was well-placed to educate the backward peoples in how deserving their backwardness was.

At Alexanderplatz he picked up the previous Saturdays Daily Mail for the girls, and discovered that rain was likely to affect the weekends English cup ties. Several columns were given over to Schachts dismissal, and he found three other articles on German matters. This, as McKinley had said, was where the story was.

Most interesting to Russell, though, was the picture on the back page of the streamlined steam locomotive Coronation, hanging between ship and quay en route to America for some celebration or other. He would keep that for Paul.

He thought about his son as the tram ground its way northwest toward Friedrichshain. On the telephone two nights earlier Paul had used all the right words to describe a thrilling weekend with the Jungvolk, but there had been a different story in the tone. Or had there? Maybe it was just that adolescent reticence which psychiatrists were so full of these days. He needed a proper talk with the boy, which made that weekends summons to Cracow all the more annoying. And to make matters worse, Hertha were at home that Sunday too. Paul could always go with Thomas, but . . . an away game, he thought suddenly. He could take Paul to an away game the following Sunday. A real trip. He could see no reason why Ilse would object.

And Cracow would be interesting, if nothing else. He had already booked his sleeper tickets and hotel room, and was looking forward to seeing the city for the first time. Both his agents had loved the Germanys Neighbours idea, so he thought there would be some money in it, too.

He reached the Wiesners stop, walked the short distance to their block, and climbed the stairs. Dr. Wiesner, who he hadn't seen for a couple of weeks, opened the door. He looked noticeably more care-worn, but managed a smile of welcome. I wanted to thank you for talking to Albert, he said without preamble. And Id like to ask you another favor. I feel awkward doing thisand please say no if its too difficultbut, well, I am just doing what I must. You understand?

Russell nodded. What now, he wondered.

Wiesner hesitated. He also seemed more unsure of himself, Russell noticed. And who could blame him?

Is there any way you could check on the rules for taking things out of the country? For Jews, I mean. Its just that they keep changing the rules, and if I ask what they are then theyll just assume Im trying to get around them.

Of course, Russell said. Ill let you know on Friday.

Wiesner nodded. One person I know asked about a miniature which had been in his family for a hundred years, and they simply confiscated it, he went on, as if Russell still needed convincing.

Ill let you know, Russell said again.

Yes, thank you. Im told theres a good chance that the girls will be allowed to go, and Id like to . . . well, provide for them in England. You understand?

Russell nodded.

Very well. Thank you again. I mustnt take up any more learning time. He stepped to the adjoining door and opened it. Girls, come. He said it gruffly, but the smile he bestowed on them as they trooped in was almost too full of love. Russell remembered the faces on the Danzig station platform, the sound the woman had made. A different Mother, he thought.

The two girls fell on the Daily Mail.

You can keep it, apart from the back page he told them, and explained that he wanted the picture for his son.

Tell us about your son, Marthe said. In English, of course, she added.

He spent the next twenty minutes talking and answering questions about Paul. The girls were sympathetic to the philatelist, indulgent toward the football fan and lover of modern transport, dismissive of the toy soldier collector. They were particularly impressed by the tale of how, around the age of five, he had almost died of whooping cough. Telling the story, Russell felt almost anxious, as if he wasnt sure how it was going to end.

He turned the tables for the second half of the lesson, inviting them to talk about their own histories. He regretted this almost instantly, thinking that, given their situation, this was likely to prove upsetting for them. They didn't see it that way. It wasnt that they thought the familys current difficulties were temporary; it was more a matter of their knowing, even with all their problems, that they had more love in their lives than most other people.

It was one of the nicest hours he had ever spent, and walking back to the tram stop on Neue Konigstrasse he reminded himself to thank Doug Conway for the introduction the next time he saw him.

The opportunity soon presented itself. Back at the apartment, he found a message from Conway, asking him to call. He did so.

Conway didn't sound like his usual self. One of our people would like a word, he said.

What about? Russell asked warily.

I dont know. Im just the messenger.

Ah.

Could you come in, say, tomorrow morning, around eleven?

I suppose so.

Id like to see you, too. Were leaving, by the way. Ive been posted to Washington.

When? And why havent you told me?

Im telling you now. I only heard a couple of days ago. And were going in a couple of weeks.

Well Im sorry to hear that. From a purely selfish point of view, of course. Is it a promotion?

Sort of. Touch of the up, touch of the sideways. Anyway, were having a dinner for a few people on the thirdthats next Fridayand I hoped you and your lady friend could come.

Oh, Effi will be. . . . Working, he was going to say. But of course she wouldn'tBarbarossa would be over, and Mother didn't start shooting until the thirteenth. Ill ask her, he said. Should be okay, though.

THE CAFE KRANZLER WAS full of SS officers the next morning, their boots polished to such perfection that any leg movement sent flashes of reflected light from the chandeliers dancing around the walls. Russell hurried through his coffee and, with half an hour to burn, ambled down Unter den Linden to the Schloss. The Kaisers old home was still empty, but the papers that morning were full of his upcoming eightieth birthday party in Holland. Come back, all is forgiven, Russell murmured to himself.

After the Unter den Linden the British Embassy seemed an oasis of languor. The staff drifted to and fro, as if worried they might be caught speeding. Was this the new British plan? Russell wondered. Slow the drift to war by slowing the diplomats?

Doug Conway eventually appeared. One of our intelligence people wants to talk to you, he said quietly. Nothing formal, just a chat about things. Russell grunted his disbelief, and Conway had the grace to look embarrassed. Not my ideaIm just the messenger.

You said that yesterday.

Well, I am. Look, Ill take you up. Hes a nice enough chap. His names Trelawney-Smythe.

It would be, Russell thought. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.

Trelawney-Smythes office was a small room high at the back of the building, with a compensating view of the Brandenburg Gate. Conway introduced Russell and withdrew. Trelawney-Smythe, a tall dark-haired man in his thirties with a worried-looking face, ushered him to a seat.

Good of you to come, he began, rifling through papers on his overcrowded desk. Russell wondered if Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist gave private lessons in desk arrangement. Ah, Trelawney-Smythe said triumphantly, extracting a copy of Pravda from the mess. A handwritten sheet was attached with a paper clip.

My latest masterpiece, Russell murmured. Why was it, he wondered, that British officialdom always brought out the schoolboy in him? After reading one of the Saint stories Paul had asked him why the Saint was so fond of prodding Chief Inspector Teal in the stomach. Russell had been unable to offer a coherent explanation, but deep down he knew exactly why. He already wanted to prod Trelawney-Smythe in something.

The other man had unclipped the handwritten sheet from the newspaper and carefully stowed the paper clip away in its rightful place. This is a translation of your article, he said.

May I see it? Russell asked, holding out a hand.

Somewhat taken aback, Trelawney-Smythe handed it over.

Russell glanced through it. They had printed it more or less verbatim. He handed it back.

Mr. Russell, Im going to be completely frank with you, Trelawney-Smythe said, unconsciously echoing Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist.

Dont strain yourself, Russell thought.

You used to be a member of the British Communist Party, correct?

Yes. He wondered if Trelawney-Smythe and Kleist had ever met.

Then you know how the communists operate?

You think they all operate the same way?

I think the Soviets have certain well-practiced methods, yes.

Youre probably right.

Well, then. We dont think this will be the end of it. We think theyll ask for more and more.

More and more articles? And who is we?

Trelawney-Smythe smiled. Dont play the innocent. You know who we are. And you know Im not talking about your articles, amusing as they are. We think theyll be asking you for other information. The usual method is to keep upping the ante, until youre no longer in a position to refuse. Because theyll shop you to the Germans if you do.

As you said, I know how they operate. And its my lookout, isnt it?

Not completely. Do you see this? Trelawney-Smythe asked, indicating the words at the foot of the article, which identified the name, nationality, and credentials of the author.

Yes.

An Englishman currently living in Germany, Trelawney-Smythe read out, just to be sure.

Thats me.

Trelawney-Smythe tapped on the paper with an index finger. You are English, and your behavior will reflect on the rest of us. Particularly at a time like this.

A dont-rock-the-boat-for-Gods-sake sort of time?

Something like that. Relations between us and the Soviets are, shall we say, difficult at the moment. They dont trust us and we dont trust them. Everybodys looking for signals of intent. The smallest thinglike Pravda inviting you to write these articlescould mean something. Or nothing. They could be planning to use you as a channel to us or the Germans, for passing on information or disinformation. We dont know. I assume you dont know.

Im just doing my job.

All right. But how would you feel about providing us with advance copies of your articles. Just so we know whats coming.

Russell laughed. You too? He explained about his arrangement with the SD. Why not? he said. I might as well run off a few carbons for Mussolini and Daladier while Im at it. He put his hands on the arms of the chair, preparing to lift himself up. Anything else?

We would appreciate being told if this goes beyond a mere commercial arrangement. And obviously wed be interested in anything you learn which might be of use to your country.

Ive already learned one thing. The Soviets think the British and French are trying to cut them out. Look how long Hitler gave the ambassador at the opening last week. Look at the new trade deal talks. If you dont start treating the Soviets as potential allies, theyll do a deal with Hitler.

I think Londons aware of that.

You could have fooled me. But what do I know? He looked at his watch. I have a lunch date. He extended his hand across the desk. Ill bear what youve said in mind.

Enjoy your lunch.

Russell dropped in on Conway on his way out.

Still talking to me? the diplomat asked.

You, yes; the Empire, no.

Hes just doing his job.

I know. Look, thanks for the dinner invite. Ill let you know soon as I can. Russell paused at the door. And I will be sorry to see you go, he added.

IT WAS A FAST five-minute walk to Russischer Hof on Georgenstrasse, where he and Thomas usually met for lunch. As he hurried east on Unter den Linden Russell replayed the conversation with Trelawney-Smythe in his mind. Rather to his surprise it had been refreshingly free of threats. If British intelligence wanted to, he imagined that they could make his life a lot more difficult. They could take away his passport, or just make renewal harder. They could probably make it harder for him to sell his work in England, his prime market. A word to a few knighthood-hungry editorsin fact a mere appeal to their patriotismand his London agent would be collecting rejections on his behalf. On the plus side, it was beginning to look as if every intelligence service in Europe was interested in employing him.

It was a raw day, the wind whipping in from the east, and Russell turned up his collar against it. A tram slid under the railway bridge, bell frantically ringing, as he turned off Friedrichstrasse and into Georgenstrasse. The Russisches Hotel was a nineteenth-century establishment once favored by Bismarck, and sometimes Russell wondered if they were still recycling the same food. The elaborate decor created a nice atmosphere, though, and the usual paucity of uniformed clientele was a definite bonus.

Russells ex-brother-in-law was seated at a window table, glass of Riesling in hand, looking dourly out at the street. The dark gray suit added to the sober impression, but that was Thomas. When theyd first met in the mid-20s Russell had thought him the epitome of the humor-less German. Once he had gotten to know him, however, he had realized that Thomas was anything but. Ilses brother had a sly, rather anarchic sense of humor, completely lacking in the cruelty which marked much popular German humor. If anything he was the epitome of the decent German, an endangered species if ever there was one.

The pot roast with cream sauce, red cabbage, and mashed potatoes seemed an ideal riposte to the weather, which was now blowing snow flurries past their window. Hows the business? Russell asked, as Thomas poured him a glass of wine.

Good. Weve got a lot of work, and exports are looking up. The new printers have made a huge difference. You know the Worlds Fair in New York this April? It looked for a moment as if we might have a stand there.

What happened?

It seems the organizers have decided to include a pavilion celebrating pre-Nazi German Art. And emigre art. If they do, the government will boycott the Fair.

Thats a shame.

Thomas gave him a wintry smile. Given the context, its hard to be that upset. And theres always the chance that the Ministry would have refused to let us go. Because of our employment policies.

Only one firm in Berlin employed more Jews than Schade Printing Works.

You dont have room for one more, I suppose? Russell asked, thinking of Albert Wiesner.

Not really. Who do you have in mind?

Russell explained the Wiesners situation.

Thomas looked pained. I have a waiting list of around two hundred already, he said. Most of them are relatives of people who already work there.

Russell thought of pressing him but decided not to. He could hear Albert in his head: One familys success is another familys failure. I understand, he said, and was about to change the subject when the waiter arrived with their meals.

Both men noticed that the portions seemed smaller than usual. Sign of the times, Thomas observed.

The roast tasted better than usual, though. Any chance of things getting better? Russell asked. Thomas had no more inside information than Russells other friends in Berlinand considerably less than manybut hed always had a remarkable knack for knowing which way the wind was blowing.

I dont know, was his answer. Ribbentrops off to Warsaw again. They seem to be trying. He shrugged. Well probably find out more on Monday.

That was the day of Hitlers annual speech to the Reichstag commemorating his own accession to the Chancellorship. Id forgotten about that, Russell admitted.

Youre probably the only person in Europe who has. I think the whole continents hanging on it. Will he keep the pressure on, demand more? Or will he take the pressure off? That would be the intelligent move. Act as if hes satisfied, even if hes only pausing for breath. But in the long run. . . . Its hard to see him stopping. Hes like a spinning coin. Once he stops spinning, hell fall flat.

Russell grunted. Nice.

They asked after each others better halves, both current and former.

Youre asking me? Thomas said when Russell enquired after Ilse. I havent see her for weeks. Last time we went over there, well. . . . He didn't continue.

You didn't have a row?

Oh no, nothing like that, Thomas said, as if rows were something that happened to other people. Which, in his case, they usually were. I just find Matthias so . . . oh, I dont know . . . complacent? Is that the right word for people who say they fear the worst but live their lives as if theres bound to be a happy ending?

It might be, Russell agreed. He realized he hadn't told Thomas about his trip to Cracow, or asked him to take Paul to the match on Sunday, and did so now.

Thomas was happy to take Paul, but bemused by Russells choice of Cracow for the Germanys Neighbours series. Wouldn't a day trip to Posen have been good enough? he wanted to know.

Russell had a sudden desire to tell Thomas about Shchepkinif something went wrong, there would be someone to offer some sort of explanation to Paul and Effibut held himself back. He would be compromising Thomas, and to what real end? What could go wrong?

WAITING BEHIND ANOTHER CUSTOMER for his Friday morning paper, Russell caught sight of the headline: BARCELONA FALLS. On impulse, he turned away. That was one story he didn't want to read. The Spanish Civil War was over. The good guys had lost. What else was there to say?

As it had gone down so well on his last visit, he bought another ancient Daily Mail at the Alexanderplatz kiosk. This had an article on young English girls collecting stamps, which he knew would interest Ruth and Marthe, and a big piece on the recent loss of the Empire Flying Boat Cavalier, complete with map and diagram, which Paul would love. He saved the best, however, for the very end of the girls lessona report on a tongue-twisting competition on the BBC. Trying to say should such a shapeless sash such shabby stitches show got Ruth giggling so hard she really was in stitches, and Marthe fared little better with the flesh of freshly fried flying fish.

The doctor was not at home, so Russell handed the copy of the latest rules governing Jewish emigration to Frau Wiesner. He had collected them the previous day from the British Passport Control Office. But they ignore their own rules half the time, the young official had told him bitterly. You can count on getting a change of clothes past them, but anything else is as likely to be confiscated as not. If your friends have any other way of getting stuff out, they should use it.

Russell passed on the advice, and watched Frau Wiesners heart visibly sink.

If you need help, ask me, he said, surprising himself. I dont think Id have any trouble shipping stuff to my family in England.

Her eyes glowed. Thank you, she said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.

He journeyed home to pack, stopping off in Alexanderplatz for a late lunch. At least he was pleasing some people. He hadn't seen Effi since Sunday and the round of mutual accusations which he had so stupidly instigated. They hadn't had a rowthey had even managed two reasonably friendly conversations on the telephonebut he knew she was angry with him, and his non-availability for the Barbarossa sendoff had made things worse.

Paul didn't seem that much happier with him, despite the promise of a trip the following Sunday to see the cup tie in Dresden. There was something going on, but Paul wasnt prepared to talk about it, at least not on the telephone.

Frau Heidegger was glad to see him, and sorry his imminent train prevented him from joining her for coffee. Up in his apartment, he threw a few spare clothes into a suitcase, checked that he had his notes for the next article, and headed back down. On the next landing he ran into a smiling McKinley.

Everything okay? Russell asked in passing.

Uh-huh. Im just waiting for our friends letter and . . . bingo!

Russell laughed and rattled on down the stairs.

He arrived at the Schlesinger Bahnhof with twenty minutes to spare. The train was already sheltering under the wrought-iron canopy, and he walked down the platform in search of his carriage and seat. As he leaned out the window to watch a train steam in from the east a paper boy thrust an afternoon edition under his nose. The word Barcelona was again prominent, but this time he handed over the pfennigs. As his train gathered speed through Berlins industrial suburbs he read the article from start to finish, in all its sad and predictable detail.

Three years of sacrifice, all for nothing. Three years of towns won, towns lost. Russell had registered the names, but resisted further knowledge. It was too painful. Thousands of young men and women had gone to fight fascism in Spain, just as thousands had gone, like him, to fight for communism twenty years earlier. According to Marx, history repeated itself first as tragedy and then as farce. But no one was laughing. Except perhaps Stalin.

Russell supposed he should be glad that Spain would soon be at peace, but even that was beyond him. He stared out the window at the neat fields of the Spree valley, basking in the orange glow of the setting sun, and felt as though he were being lied to. Seconds later, as if in confirmation, the train thundered through a small town station, its fluttering swastika deep blood-red in that self-same glow, a crowd of small boys in uniform milling on the opposite platform.

THE FOOD IN THE RESTAURANT car proved surprisingly good. The menu had a distinctly Polish flavor, although as far as Russell could see there were few Poles on the train. Most of his fellow-passengers were German males, mainly commercial travelers or soldiers on leave. There was only a sprinkling of couples, though the pair at the next table had enough sexual energy for ten. They could hardly keep their hands off each other while eating, and the young man kept checking his watch, as if willing the train on to Breslau, where the sleeping coaches would be attached.

The couple soon disappeared, probably in search of an empty bathroom. The romance of trains, Russell thought, staring at his own reflection in the window. He remembered the overnight journey to Leningrad with Ilse in 1924, just after theyd met. People had slept in the bathrooms on that train, and anywhere else they could find a space. He and Ilse had had to wait.

Fifteen years. The Soviet Union had come a long way since then, one way or another. Some people came back from visits singing its praises. There was still much to do, of course, but it was the future in embryo, a potential paradise. Other returnees shook their heads in sadness. A dream warped beyond recognition, they said. A nightmare.

Russell guessed the latter was nearer the truth, but sometimes wondered whether that was just his natural pessimism. It had to be a bit of both, but where the balance lay he didn't know.

More to the point, what did Moscow want with him? What they said they wanted? Or something else? Or both? Trelawney-Smythe had been certain they would ask for more, and Kleist had hinted as much. He didn't even know who he was dealing with. Was Shchepkin NKVD or GRU? Or some other acronym he hadn't even heard of? A French correspondent in Berlin had told him that the NKVD was now split between a Georgian faction and the rest, and for all Russell knew the GRU was eaten up by factional rivalry over how much salt they put in the canteen borsht.

And why was he assuming it would be Shchepkin again? The revolution was burning its human fuel at quite a rate these days, and Shchepkin, with his obvious intelligence, seemed highly combustible.

He would have to deal with whoever presented himself. Or herself. But what would he or she want? What could they want? Information about German military strengths and weaknesses? About particular weapons programs? Political intentions? Military plans? He had no informationno access to informationabout any of that. Thank God.

What did he have that they valued? Freedom to move around Germany. Freedom to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Even more so now, with Kleists letter in his possession. Maybe one of their agents had gone missing, and they would ask Russell to find out what had happened to him. Or they might want to use him as courier, carrying stuff to or from their agents. That would explain the meetings outside Germany.

Or they could use him as a conduit. The Soviets knew the Germans would check up on him, and assumed he would be asked for reports on his meetings. And the British too. They would have counted on the British calling him in. They could use him as a human mailbox, with Kleist and Trelawney-Smythe as the sorters.

They might be just making it up as they went along. His unusual situation made him potentially useful, and they were still looking for a way to realize that potential. That would explain the articles and oral reportsa sort of halfway house to prepare him for a truly clandestine life. There was no way of knowing. Russell leaned back in his chair, remembering the remark of a Middlesex Regiment officer in 1918. Intelligence services, the man had said, are prone to looking up their own arses and wondering why its dark.

SOON AFTER 10:00 PM the train reached Breslau, the destination of most passengers. As they filtered out through the dimly lit exit, many of the remaining passengers took the chance to stretch their legs on the snow-strewn platform. Russell walked to the back of the train and watched a busy little shunter detach four saloons and replace them with three sleepers. It was really cold now, and the orange glow from the engines firebox made it seem more so.

He walked back up the platform, arms clasped tightly across his chest. Cold, eh, a young soldier said, stamping his feet and taking a deep drag on his cigarette. He was only about eighteen, and seemed to have a summer uniform on.

As Russell nodded his agreement a whistle sounded the all aboard.

Walking up the train, he reclaimed his seat in an almost empty carriage. The sleeping car attendants would be rushed off their feet for the next quarter of an hour, and he wasnt ready for sleep in any case. As the train pulled out of the station the ceiling lights were extinguished, allowing him a view through the window of flat meadows stretching north toward a distant line of yellow lights. The Oder River, likely as not.

Hoping for some conversation he revisited the restaurant car, but the only customers were a middle-aged German couple deep in the throes of an argument. The barman sold him a Goldwasser, but made it abundantly clear he was through talking for the day. Around 11:30 Russell reluctantly worked his way back down the train to the sleeping cars. The attendant showed him to his berth, and generously pointed out that the one above was unoccupied. He could take his pick.

Russell tossed his bag on the upper bunk, used the bathroom, and climbed half-dressed into the lower bunk. He would have a bath when he reached his hotel, he thought. It was an expensive one, so he didn't think there would be any problem with hot water.

As usual, he couldn't sleep. He lay there, feeling the sway of the train, listening to the click of the wheels on the rail joints, thinking about Effi. She was younger than him, eight years younger. Maybe peoples expectations shifted after a certain age, which hed reached and she hadn't. Was that why they were still living apart? Why had neither of them ever mentioned marriage? Was he afraid of something? He didn't think so. But then, what was the point of turning their lives upside-down when the Fuhrer was about to do it for them?

SHORTLY AFTER 8:00 IN THE MORNING he was standing, yawning, on one of Cracow Plaszow stations snow-covered platforms. After eventually getting to sleep, he had twice been roused for border inspections, and could hardly have felt worse if hed been awake all night.

He started toward the exit, and almost went over on a patch of ice. Further up the platform a line of young railway employees were working their way toward him, breath pumping, shoveling snow and noisily digging at the ice beneath with their spades. The sky above them seemed heavy with future snowfalls.

His hotel was on the other side of Cracows old town, some three miles away. He found a taxi outside the station, and a taxi-driver who wanted to practice his English. He had a cousin in Chicago, he said, but he wanted to go to Texas and work in the oil industry. That was where the future was.

As they drove north through the Jewish quarter Russell noticed an image of the Marx Brothers adorning a cinema on Starowi?lna Street. The name of the film was in Polish, but his drivers English failed him. He asked again at the Hotel Francuski reception, and received a confident answer from a young man in a very shiny suit. The film, which had only just opened, was called Broth of the Bird.

His room was on the third floor, looking out on Pijakska Street, which was full of well-insulated, purposeful walkers, presumably on their way to work. A church stood just across the way, the beauty of its rococo facade still visible beneath the clinging snow.

The room itself was large, high-ceilinged and well-furnished. The bed gave without sagging; the two-person sofa was almost luxurious. The small table and upright chair by the window were custom-made for the visiting journalist. There was a spacious wardrobe for hanging his clothes. The lights all worked, both here and in the adjoining bathroom, which seemed almost as big. The water ran hot in the spacious four-legged bath, and Russell lay soaking until he realized he was falling asleep.

After a shave and change of clothes he ventured out again. As he had expected, it was snowing, large flakes of the stuff floating down in dense profusion. Following the receptionists directions, Russell turned right outside the door, and right again opposite the church, into ?w Jana Street. Following this south across two intersections he reached the Rynek Glowny, Europes largest market square. The center of the huge expanse was occupied by a Gothic hall, but Russells eyes were instantly drawn to his left and the loveliest church he had ever seen. Two asymmetrical towers soared skyward through the curtain of snow, one climaxing in a flurry of spires, the other, slightly less high, with a small renaissance dome. Both were stacked with windows, like a medieval skyscraper.

For several minutes he stood there entranced, until the cold in his feet and a hunger for coffee drove him into one of the cafes that lined the square. Two cups and a roll packed with thick slices of bacon later he felt ready to face a day of work. The cafe might have been half-empty, but all the customers were Germanys Neighbours. He introduced himself to one young Polish couple and took it from there. For the next few hours he worked his way round the cafes and bars of the old town, asking questions.

Most of those he approached spoke some English or some German, and he didn't get many refusals. His own Englishness usually got him off to a favorable start, since many of his interviewees chose to believe that he had a personal line to Neville Chamberlain. Would England fight for Poland? they all asked. And when Russell expressed a sliver of doubt as to whether she would, they couldn't believe it. But you fought for Belgium! several of them said indignantly.

There was virtual unanimity about Polands situation. Germany was a menace, the Soviets were a menace: It was like choosing between cholera and the Black Death. What did they think about the German request for an extra-territorial road across the corridor? They could whistle. Would they fight for German Danzig? Every last stone. Would they win? He must be joking.

He couldn't be certain of course, but the few people who refused him all looked Jewish. A shadow dropped over their eyes when he introduced himself, a hunted look on their faces as they backed away, pleading lack of time or some other excuse. As if he were an advance guard for the Nazis, his very presence in Cracow a harbinger of disaster.

The snow kept falling. He ate an omelette for lunch in one of the Rynek Glowny cafes, and then trudged up and down the main shopping streets in search of a present for Effi. He half-expected Shchepkin to suddenly appear at his shoulder, but there was no sign of him or of anyone who seemed like one of his associates. As far as Russell could tell, no one was tracking his footsteps in the snow.

After slipping on some icy cobbles and being almost run over by a tram he decided a rest was in order and retreated to his hotel for a nap. It was 7:00 by the time he woke, and he felt hungry again. A new receptionist recommended a restaurant on Starowi?lna Street, which turned out to be only a few doors from the cinema showing the Marx Brothers movie. It was too good an invitation to miss. After partaking of a wonderful wienerschnitzelat least Cracow had something to thank the Hapsburg Empire forhe joined the shivering queue for the evening showing.

Inside the cinema it was hot, noisy, and packed. Surveying the audience before the lights went down, Russell guessed that at least half of the people there were Jewish. He felt cheered by the fact that this could still seem normal, even in a country as prone to anti-Semitism as Poland. He wished Ruth and Marthe were there with him. And Albert. He couldn't remember ever seeing Albert laugh.

The newsreel was in Polish, but Russell got the gist. The first item featured a visit to Warsaw by the Hungarian Foreign Minister, and no doubt claimed that he and Colonel Beck had discussed matters of mutual importance, without spelling out what everyone knew these werechoosing their cuts of Czechoslovakia once the Germans had delivered the body. The second item concerned Danzig, with much piling of sandbags round the Polish Post Office. The third, more entertainingly, featured a man in New York walking a tightrope between skyscrapers.

The movie proved a surreal experience in more ways than one. Since it was subtitled in Polish, the audience felt little need to keep quiet, and Russell had some trouble catching all the wisecracks. And as the subtitling ran a few seconds behind the visuals, he often found himself laughing ahead of everyone else, like some eccentric cackler.

None of it mattered, though. Hed loved the Marx Brothers since seeing Animal Crackers during the last days of the Weimar Republic, before Jewish humor followed Jewish music and Jewish physics into exile. By the time Broth of the Bird was half an hour old he was literally aching with laughter. The films subject-matterthe approach of an utterly ridiculous war between two Ruritanian countrieswas fraught with contemporary relevance, but any dark undertone was utterly overwhelmed by the swirling tide of joyous anarchy. If you wanted something real to worry about, there were cracker crumbs in the bed with a woman expected. The only sane response to rampant patriotism was: Take a card! As the audience streamed out of the cinema, at least half the faces seemed streaked with tears of laughter.

It had stopped snowing. In fact, the sky seemed to be clearing. As he walked back toward the city center, Russell had glimpses of the Wawel Castle and the cathedral silhouetted against a starry slice of sky. Following the tram-lines through a gap in the old medieval walls he eventually reached the Rynek Glowny, where the cafes and restaurants were humming with conversation and all sorts of music. Standing in mid-square beside the Cloth Hall he could hear pianos playing Mendelssohn, Chopin, and American blues.

People were having fun. They did that in Berlin too, but there was something different in the air. In Berlin there was always an edge of caution: looks over the shoulder, a rein on the tongue. Maybe there was one here tooheaven knew, the regime in Warsaw was illiberal enoughbut he couldn't feel it. If the Poles were facing the most threatening year of their recent existence, they werent letting on.

He thought about having a nightcap, but decided on not making things anymore difficult for Shchepkin than he needed to. He was only spending one night at the hotel.

There was no sign of him in the lobby, or of anyone else, suspicious or not. There was no message at reception when he collected his key. After ascending in the delightful glass-and-wrought-iron cage, he found his corridor silent, his door locked. The room was empty. Laughing at himself, he checked the wardrobe. No Shchepkin. No Harpo Marx.

It was almost midnight. He stretched out on the sofa with the book of John Kling detective stories which Paul had loaned him weeks before, one ear cocked for footsteps in the corridor, but all he heard was an occasional drunken shout from the street below. At 12:45 he gave up and went to bed, laughing in the dark about cracker crumbs.

HE WAS WOKEN BY CHURCH BELLS. It was just after eight, a thin line of gray light separating the curtains on the near window. Russell clambered out of bed and pulled them back. The tip of the church spire opposite was lit by an invisible sun, the sky clear. It looked bitterly cold.

He had mixed feelings about Shchepkins non-appearance. He couldn't help feeling annoyed that he might have come all this way, missing a weekend with Effi and Paul, only to be stood up. On the other hand, he could hardly say the weekend had been wasted: He liked Cracow, had loved Duck Soup, and had the makings of a Germanys Neighbours article. If the Soviets were already tired of him he supposed he should feel relieved, but he couldn't help feeling an unexpectedly poignant sense of anti-climax.

If nothing else, he told himself, the projected Soviet series had inspired him to generate others. And Shchepkinhe looked at his watchstill had seven hours to make contact before his train left.

He was damned if he was going to stay cooped up in his room, even assuming the hotel would let him. He decided to pack and take his bag to the left luggage at the main station, which was only five minutes walk away. He could get a taxi from there to the Plaszow station when the time came.

An hour later, he was enjoying coffee and rolls in an almost empty station buffet. There were no English or German papers for sale, andit being Sunday morningthere was little activity to observe. One small shunting engine chugged its way through in apparent search of work, but that was it. Russell was about to leave when a dark-haired young man loomed over his table. Have you a pencil I could use? he asked in German.

Russell handed his over.

The man sat down, wrote out what appeared to be train times on the corner of his newspaper, and handed the pencil back. Zygmunts Chapel, he said pleasantly as he got to his feet. Two oclock.

RUSSELL REACHED THE FOOT of the ramp leading up to the Wawel with time to spare. On the slopes of the hill several bunches of children were throwing snowballs at each other and squealing with delight, while their parents stood and chatted, plumes of breath coalescing in the air between them. Away to the left, the yellow walls and red tile roof of the Royal Palace stood stark against the clear blue sky.

The ramp ended in a gate through the old fortifications, close by the southern end of the cathedral. Thisin contrast to the church on the Rynek Glownywas an elegant mess featuring spires and domes in a bewildering variety of styles and sizes, as if the whole thing had been arranged by a playful child.

The Zygmunt Chapel was off the nave to the right. The tombs of two menkings, Russell assumedwere vertically stacked amid a feast of renaissance carving. The accompanying writing was in Polish, but he recognized the name Jagiello from the Danzig stamp wars.

Beautiful, yes? said a familiar voice at his shoulder.

It is, Russell agreed. Shchepkin was wearing the same crumpled suit, and quite possibly the same shirt, but on this occasion a dark green tie was hanging, somewhat loosely, beneath the collar. A fur hat covered his hair.

Have you visited Cracow before? the Russian asked.

No, never.

Its one of my favorite cities.

Oh.

Have you seen the Holy Cross Chapel? Shchepkin asked.

No. . . .

You must. Come. He led the way back toward the entrance, and the chapel to its left. Russell followed, somewhat amused at being shown the wonders of Christendom by a communist agent.

The chapel was extraordinary. There was another Jagiellonian tomb, carved in marble in the year Columbus stumbled across America, and a series of slightly older Byzantine frescoes. As they emerged, Shchepkin stood looking down the nave, then turned his eyes upward toward the soaring roof.

My father was a priest, he said in reaction to Russells look. One thing more, he added, gesturing toward the shrine in the center of the nave. It held a silver coffin of staggering workmanship. It was made in Danzig, Shchepkin pointed out, as if their relationship needed geographical continuity. Enough, he added, seeing Russells expression. Well save the crypts for another time. Lets go outside.

Between the cathedral and the walls overlooking the Vistula there was a large open space. Russell and Shchepkin joined the scattering of couples and small groups who were following the freshly cleared circular path, almost blinded for a while by the brightness of sun on snow.

The article was perfect, Shchepkin said eventually. Just what was required. He produced an envelope from his pocket and slipped it into Russells. For your research work, he said.

Russell stole a quick look at it. It was a bankers draft in reichsmarks. Lots of them.

Whats the next article about? Shchepkin asked.

Transport.

Excellent. So what are you telling me today?

Russell went through the results of his visit to Dresden, his impressions and analysis. It all seemed pretty obvious to him, but Shchepkin seemed satisfied enough, nodding and interjecting the occasional question or comment. Russell had the feeling he could have listed the stations on the Ringbahn.

After one circuit they started another. They were not alone in this, but one man in particular, limping along fifty yards behind them, struck Russell as suspicious. But when he glanced over his shoulder for the third time Shchepkin told him not to worry. One of mine, he said almost affectionately. Local help, he added, rubbing his hands together. What did the SD have to say?

Russell recounted his meeting with Kleist, and the demand for previews of each article. He also told Shchepkin about the letter Kleist had written for him, and regretted doing so almost instantly: He wanted the Russian worried for his safety, not encouraged to risk it. And the British want previews, too, he added quickly, hoping to divert his listener with an unwelcome shock.

Shchepkin, though, just laughed. And how are you explaining these trips? he asked.

Russell explained about Germanys Neighbours and Ordinary Germans.

Not bad, Shchepkin said. We will make an intelligence officer of you yet.

No thanks.

Shchepkin gave him one of those looks, amused but disappointed. Are you planning to take sides in the coming war? he asked.

Not if I can help it, was Russells instinctive response. If truth be told, he had no idea.

Have you heard of the poet Yeats? Shchepkin asked out of the blue.

Of course.

Shchepkin grunted. One never knows with the English. So many of you look down on anything Irish.

Yeats is a wonderful poet.

He died yesterday, Shchepkin said.

I didn't know.

You know that poem, The Stolen Child? I always loved that line, a world more full of weeping than you can understand.

Russell said nothing.

Shchepkin shook his head, as if to clear it. Well meet in Posen next month. Or Pozna? as the Poles call it now. And wed like you to talk to armament workers, he said. In Berlin, the Ruhryou know where the big factories are. We need to know if there are problems there, if the workers are ready for political action.

Thatll be difficult, Russell said.

Ordinary German workers, caught between their natural desire for peace and patriotic concern for the Fatherland, Shchepkin suggested. Im sure you can manage it.

Ill try, Russell agreed.

You must, Shchepkin said. And you really should wear a hat.

Idiots to Spare

BERLIN WAS GRAY AND OVERCAST. As his train drew into Friedrichstrasse Station, Russell thought about taking the Stadtbahn another couple of stops and surprising Effi in bed, but decided against it. She was rarely at her best this early in the morning.

Having breakfasted on the train, he skipped coffee in the buffet and headed straight for his bank on Behrenstrasse, where he deposited Shchepkins bankers draft. As he headed for Franzosischestrasse in search of a tram home Russell felt an almost dizzying sense of solvency. Presents for everybody, he thought. Including himself.

The sense of well-being evaporated the moment he saw Frau Heideggers face. Oh Herr Russell, she said, grabbing his left arm with both hands. Thank God youre back. I. . . .

Whats happened?

Herr McKinleyhes dead. He committed suicidecan you believe it? The poor boy. . . . And he seemed so happy these last few weeks. I cant. . . .

How? Russell asked. He felt cold all over, and slightly nauseous. How did he kill himself? He couldn't believe it. He didn't believe it.

Frau Heidegger mopped up a tear. He threw himself in front of a train. At Zoo Station. There were lots of witnesses.

When?

Late on Saturday. The police came just before midnight and locked his room. Then they came back yesterday. They were up there for hours.

The Kripo?

She looked bewildered for a second. Yes, yes, I think so. There were so many of them. They must have been looking for a suicide note, I think. Or something to tell them why he did it.

Or a letter, Russell thought.

But I dont think they found anything, Frau Heidegger went on. They seemed very frustrated when they went. I suppose theyre worried that the Americans wont believe he killed himself.

Perhaps, Russell said. He still felt stunned.

They left the room very tidy, Frau Heidegger said inconsequentially. And they want to talk to you, she added. As soon as he gets back they said. And they put a note under your door saying the same thing. I have the telephone number. She disappeared back into her apartment for a few seconds and re-emerged with what looked like a torn-off page from a police notebook. There was a number and a nameKriminalinspektor Oehm.

Ill ring him now, Russell said.

Yes, please, Frau Heidegger said, as if it would take a huge weight off her mind.

The underling who answered knew who Russell was. The Kriminalinspektor would like to see you immediately, he said, with the stress on the last word. At the Alex. Room 456.

Im on my way, Russell said. It seemed the politic thing to do.

Ill look after your bag, Frau Heidegger said, picking it up and moving toward her door. You can collect it when you get back.

He started walking toward the U-bahn, thinking it would be quicker, but changed his mind once he reached Lindenstrasse. Why was he hurrying? And a tram ride would give him time to think.

He climbed aboard the first Alexanderplatz-bound tram and stared blankly out of the window. If there was one thing he knew, it was that McKinley hadn't killed himself. In fact, he could hardly think of anyone less likely to do so. He supposed it could have been an accidentthe platforms got pretty crowded at Zoo Station after theatre-closing timebut if so, why the rush to a suicide verdict? Frau Heidegger had mentioned witnesseslots of them. An apparent suicide, Russell realized, offered stronger grounds for a police investigation than a simple accident. Theyd spent most of yesterday in McKinleys room, and they must have been looking for something. Theresa Jurissens letter was an obvious candidate, but who knew what other pieces of paper McKinley had collected in support of his story. And it looked as though they hadn't found what they were looking for. Russell wasnt sure how reliable a judge of Kripo moods Frau Heidegger was, but the urgency of his summons certainly suggested they were missing something.

If they hadn't found the letter then where the hell was it? Six days had passed since he and McKinley had visited Theresa Jurissen and McKinley had been in a hurry; it didn't seem likely that hed taken his time sending her the money. Unless, of course, hed had trouble raising it. And she might have had trouble getting down to the poste restante to pick up the money. The letter could still be in the post. Or in her possession. Hed have to warn her, for his own sake as well as hers. If she was arrested, his own involvement would come out, and even if the Kripo accepted that hed only been along as an interpreter, hed still failed to report a possible crime against the state. At the very least, grounds for deportation. At worst. . . . It didn't bear thinking about.

If McKinley had received the letter and they hadn't found it, then what had he done with it? He might have risked posting it off to the States, but Russell didn't think so. If theyd been watching himand it seemed likely that they hadthen any outgoing mail would have been intercepted. Russell remembered McKinleys reluctant admission that he thought he was being followed, and his own scarcely concealed derision. Sorry, Tyler, he murmured out loud, drawing a stare from a woman opposite him.

Of course, McKinleys suspicions would have made him doubly careful. Which meant there was a good chance he had hidden the letter. But where? If he hadn't stashed it in his room, where could he have hidden it? Just about anywhere in Berlin, Russell thought, looking out at the Konigstrasse. McKinley had probably stolen an idea from one of the detective novels he read endlessly.

He got off outside the Alexanderplatz branch of Wertheim and walked under the railway bridge and into the square itself. The station and another department store, Tietz, occupied the northern side, the huge drab mass of the police praesidiumthe Alex, as all Berliners called itthe southern side. Russell walked past entrances 4, 3, and 2the latter housing the morgue where McKinleys body was presumably residingand in through the doors of 1, the all-purpose entrance.

The whole Berlin detective force, around 1,800 strong, worked out of this building, and Russell imagined some of them were still waiting for their offices to be discovered. He was gestured toward one of several staircases, and then spent about ten minutes pacing down a succession of identical-looking corridors in search of Room 456. The windows overlooking the inner courtyard were all barred, suggesting a penchant on the part of guests for throwing themselves out, which Russell found less than comforting. Eventually he was intercepted by a surprisingly helpful detective, who took him down the right flight of stairs and turned him into the right corridor.

Kriminalinspektor Oehms office looked like a work in progress. There were files everywherepiled on the desk, floor, windowsill, and filing cabinets. Oehm, a chubby man with a florid face, abundant fair hair and sharp-looking blue eyes, seemed unconcerned by the chaos, but his companion, a redhead with unusually pale skin, kept looking around himself in apparent disbelief. He was not introduced, but even without the telltale leather coat Russell would have assumed Gestapo.

Oehm invited him to sit down. Weve been trying to contact you since yesterday morning, he said.

Ive been out of town, Russell said.

So your fiancee told us.

Russell said nothing. He hoped Effi had behaved herself.

Where exactly were you? the Gestapo man asked.

Poland. Cracow to be precise. Im working on a series of articles on Germanys neighbors, he volunteered.

You know why we wish to talk to you? Oehm said.

I assume its about Tyler McKinley.

Correct. You were surprised by the news?

That he committed suicide. Yes, I was.

Oehm shrugged. He must have had his reasons.

Perhaps. Are you certain he killed himself?

Absolutely. There is no doubt. We have several witnesses. Reliable witnesses. A police officer, for one.

Then he must have, Russell agreed. He still couldn't see why theywhoever, exactly, they werehad needed to kill McKinley, and he didn't suppose he would ever find out. It didn't much matter, really. His knowing certainly wouldn't help McKinley.

There is one possible reason for his action, Oehm said. I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but . . . well, we have good reason to believe that your friend had become involved with political elements hostile to the state, that he may have become part of a plot against the state involving forged official documentsdocuments, that is to say, which have been fabricated to create a misleading and slanderous impression of activities inside the Reich.

What sort of activities? Russell asked innocently.

That is not your concern, the Gestapo man said.

And he wasnt my friend, Russell added. I liked him, but we hardly ever saw each other for more than a chat on the stairs. A drink every month or so, perhaps. Nothing more.

Ah. . . .

And if he was involved in this plot, why would that lead him to kill himself? Russell asked.

Perhaps it all got to be too much for him, and he couldn't think of any other way out, Oehm suggested.

He didn't give you anything to keep for him? the Gestapo man asked.

No, he didn't.

You are sure about that.

One hundred percent.

The Gestapo man looked skeptical, but said nothing.

One more thing, Oehm said. Herr McKinleys sister will be arriving in Berlin on Wednesday. To take the body home. . . .

Hows she getting here so quickly? Russell asked.

She is apparently flying across the Atlantic. The Americans have these new flying-boatsClippers I believe theyre calledand though theyre not yet in public service, there are frequent trials. Proving flights, they call them. . . .

Yes, yes, the Gestapo man murmured, but Oehm ignored him.

I am a flyer myself, he told Russell. Weekends only, of course.

We all need hobbies, Russell agreed. But how has McKinleys sister wangled a flight on one these. . . .

Clippers. I imagine Senator McKinley used his influence to get his niece a place on one of them.

Senator McKinley?

Tyler McKinleys uncle. Oehm noticed the surprise in Russells face. You did not know his uncle was a US Senator?

Like I said, we werent exactly friends. He could understand why McKinley had kept quiet about itthe boy would have hated anyone thinking he owed anything to family connections. But he was amazed that none of his fellow American journalists had spilled the beans. They must have assumed Russell knew.

As I was saying, Oehm continued, his sister will arrange for the body to be sent home and collect her brothers effects. I was hoping you could be here when we talk to her, as an interpreter and someone who knew her brother.

I can do that.

Her plane from Lisbon arrives around eleven. So, if you could be here at one?

I will be. Is that all?

Yes, Herr Russell, that is all. Oehm smiled at him. The Gestapo man gave him the merest of nods.

Russell retraced his steps to the main entrance. As he emerged into the open air he took a deep breath in and blew it out again. One thing was certainthey hadn't found the letter.

He crossed the square and walked into a cafe underneath the Stadtbahn tracks which he occasionally patronized. After ordering a couple of frankfurters and a kartoffelsalad he perched on a stool by the window, cleared a hole in the condensation, and looked out. No one had followed him in, but was anyone loitering outside? He couldn't see anyone obvious, but that didn't mean much. He would have to make sure by going through Tietz, pulling a variation of the same trick he and McKinley had pulled in the Neukolln KaDeWe. But it would have to look like an accident. He didn't want them thinking hed lost them on purpose.

The food tasted bad, which was unusual. It was the taste in his mouth, Russell thought. Fear.

He crossed the road and walked into Tietz, heading for the rank of telephone booths that he remembered outside the stores ground floor tea room. Ensconced in the first booth, he looked back along the aisle he had just walked. No one looked furtive. He dialed Effis number.

She answered on the second ring. Youre back. I had the police. . . .

I know. Ive just come from the Alex. Im sorry you got. . . .

Oh, it was no problem. They didn't break anything. I was just worried about you. Are you really upset? You didn't know him that well, did you?

No, I didn't. I feel sad, though. He was a nice enough man.

Are you coming over?

Yes, but itll be a few hours. Say around six. I have to see someone.

Okay.

Ill see you then.

I love you.

I love you, too.

He replaced the receiver and scanned the aisle again. Still nothing. A taxi, he decided. From this side of the station, where there were often only two or three waiting.

He was in luckthere was only one. Friedrichstrasse Station, he told the driver, and watched through the rear window as they swung round beneath the railway and headed down Kaiser Wilhelmstrasse. There was no sign of pursuit. At Friedrichstrasse he hurried down the steps to the U-bahn platform, reaching it as a Grenzallee train pulled in. He stepped aboard, standing beside the doors until they closed, but no one else emerged through the platform gates.

The train pulled out and he sunk into the nearest seat. Should he be waiting for darkness? he wondered. Or would that be even riskier? He had no real idea, and felt shaken by how important such a decision could be.

Neukolln was the lines penultimate stop. Russell climbed up to the street, where the loudspeakers were broadcasting Hitlers long-awaited speech to the Reichstag. A small crowd had gathered around the one outside KaDeWe, faces overcast as the sky. The Fuhrers tone was calm and reasonable, which suggested he was just warming up.

Russell walked on, following a trail of street names familiar from the week before. It was a good thing he recognized these, because the area seemed utterly different by daylight, its workshops and factories bursting with noisy activity, its cobbled streets full of rumbling lorries. Most of the workplaces were broadcasting the speech to their employees, and Hitlers words seeped out through doors and over walls, a promise here, a threat there, a piece of self-congratulation sandwiched in between. Stopping for a moment on a bridge across the Neukollner-Schiffahrtkanal, Russell heard fragments of the speech tossed around on the breeze, like the puffs of windstrewn smoke belching from the myriad chimneys.

Schonlankerstrasse was empty, the block door wide open. He walked in and knocked on Theresa Jurissens door. There was no answer. He knocked again with the same result, and was wondering what to do when footsteps sounded on the stairs. It was her.

Her face registered alarm, and then anger. Without speaking, she opened her door and gestured him in. Marietta was sitting exactly where she had been on his last visit, still drawing, still oblivious. What do you want? Theresa asked, the moment the door was closed behind her.

Im sorry, he said. I know this is dangerous for you, but not coming might have been more dangerous. He told her about McKinleys death. Could the police connect you? he asked. Did you ever write to him?

No, she said. Never.

What about the document you told us about?

I sent it, but thats all. I gave no name or address.

Russell sighed in relief. When did you send it?

Last week. Thursday afternoon.

McKinley had received it. He must have. Russell explained why he had asked. They havent found it, he told her. He must have hidden it somewhere.

Theres nothing to connect me, she said. Except you, she added, the look of alarm back on her face.

They wont hear about you from me, Russell promised her, hoping he could live up to such an assurance.

Thank you, she said doubtfully, as if she wasnt that sure either. And their secret will stay secret, she added, as much to herself as to him.

Looks like it.

She nodded, her view of the world confirmed.

Ill be going, he said.

Let me make sure theres no one about, she cautioned him. A few moments later she returned. Its all clear.

Russell smiled goodbye at a closing door and began the long walk back to the center of Neukolln. The Fuhrer was well into his stride now, each torrent of words reinforced by the sound of his fist hammering at the lectern. By the time Russell reached KaDeWe the listening crowd had spilled into the street, all eyes raised to the crackling loudspeaker, as if Hitler would emerge genie-like from the mesh, a head spouting venom on a shimmering tail.

IT WAS DARK BY THE TIME he reached Effis flat. She was wearing a dress he hadn't seen before, deep red with a black lace collar. And she wanted to eat out, at a Chinese restaurant which had opened a few weeks earlier at the Halensee end of the Kudamm.

Ive been learning my lines, she announced as they walked downstairs. Would you hear me later?

It was a peace offering, Russell realized. Love to, he told her.

They walked through to the Kudamm and took a westbound tram. The wide pavements were crowded with home-going workers, the restaurants and cinemas gearing up for the evening as the shops closed down. Alighting at Lehninerplatz they found the Chinese restaurant already filling up. Goering eats here, Effi said, as if in explanation.

He eats everywhere, Russell said. And this is on me, he added.

Effi gave him a look.

Ive sold a lot of work lately, he explained.

They were shown to their table, which stood beneath a huge scroll of dragons. Russell picked up the menu, hoping it was in German, but needn't have bothered.

Let me order, Effi said.

Include beer, Russell insisted. He was still feeling tense, he realized. And maybe still a little in shock. Sitting there, half-listening as Effi questioned the waiter, he found himself imagining McKinleys deaththe moment of falling, of realization. Of terror. How was your weekend? he asked.

Miserable. You know I hate going to parties on my own. All the women I know were lining up to ask if youd left menone of them asked whether Id left youand all the men were trying to work out how available I was, without actually asking. Every conversation was fraught with significance. Every dance was a means to an end. I couldn't just be for a single moment. When I go to something like that with you, I can just enjoy myself. She sighed. Anyway, the party went to about six, so I got to bed about seven, and the Kripo started hammering on the door at about nine. So I wasnt in a good mood. And I was upset for you too. I know you liked him, even if he was a bit Rin Tin Tin-like. And I could just see it too. Zoo Station gets so crowded on a Saturday evening. She watched a tray of food go by, and sniffed at the passing aroma. And Zarahs such a misery as well. Shes convinced theres something wrong with Lothar. I tell her shes jumping to conclusions, that hes probably just a slow learner. She was herself, according to Muti. But shes convinced theres something wrong. Shes made an appointment with a specialist.

When for? Russell asked.

Oh, I dont know. Next week sometime. I think she said Monday. Why?

Just wondered. The arrival of their drinks gave Russell a few seconds to think. He couldn't say anything, he realized. And he probably didn't need to. Zarahs husband Jens was a Party official, and Russell couldn't believe the Nazis would start killing their own children. And if he did say anything to Effi, and she said something to Zarah, then he might end up in a Gestapo cellar trying to explain where hed gotten his information from.

You look worried, Effi said.

Ive heard a few rumors, thats all. Just journalist talk probably. The word is that the governments thinking of tightening up the Law on the Prevention of Hereditary Diseases. Sanctioning mercy killing when the parents agree.

She gave him an angry look. Theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she said. And even if there was, Zarah would never agree to. . . . I cant believe you think. . . .

I dont. But Jens is a Nazi, after all. He believes in all this purification of the race nonsense.

Effi snorted. Maybe he does. But if he tried to take Lothar away from Zarah shed never forgive him. And he knows it.

Okay.

And theres nothing wrong with Lothar, she insisted once more.

HE READ THE FUHRERS SPEECH next morning on his way home for a change of clothes. The editorials were calling it a major contribution to world peace, and the speech certainly seemed accommodating by Hitlers standards. There were friendly references to Poland and the non-aggression pact between the two countries. There was a marked absence of attacks on the Soviet Union. Only one passage chilled Russell to the bone, and that concerned the Jews, who were only likely to start a war in Hitlers frenzied imagination. If they did, the result would not be the Bolshevization of the earth and victory for the Jews but the annihilation of the Jewish race in Europe. Russell wondered how the Wiesners felt reading that, even if Hitler was not speaking about physical annihilation. At least he hoped he wasnt. He remembered Alberts words in the Friedrichshain park: Theyll just kill us. . . . Whos going to stop them?

Frau Heidegger had listened to the speech and found only grounds for optimism. Therell be an agreement with the Poles, she said. Like the one with the Czechs at Munich. And then therell be nothing more to fight over.

Russell said he hoped she was right.

The police were back yesterday, she went on. Herr McKinleys sister will be here on Wednesday or Thursday to collect his things.

I know, Russell told her. They want me to interpret for them.

Thats nice, Frau Heidegger said.

Once upstairs, Russell bathed, changed, and worked for a couple of hours planning his transport piece for Pravda. Autobahns and the peoples car, streamlined trains and new U-bahn lines, the latest Dornier flying boats. Perhaps a hint of regret for the passing of the Zeppelins, he thought, but absolutely no mention of the Hindenburg.

He fried up a potato omelette for lunch, found a dusty bottle of beer to accompany it, and reluctantly considered the prospect of interviewing Hitlers armament workers for Stalin. It could be done, he supposed, but hed have to be damn careful. Start off by talking to the Party people in the factory, the managers and Labor Front officials. Only move out onto the metaphorical lake if the ice feels really solid. Dont do a McKinley.

He thought about the missing letter. If he was going to take a look around the Americans room it had to be today.

He walked down to the ground floor, and tapped on Frau Heideggers open door. Have you still got a spare key for Tylers room? he asked. I loaned him some books, and it would be awkward searching for them when his sisters here, so I thought I could slip in and get them today. You dont need to come up, he added quickly, hoping that Frau Heideggers bad knees would triumph over her curiosity.

They did. Make sure you bring it back, she told him.

McKinleys room was still suffused with the faint odor of his Balkan tobacco. As Frau Heidegger had intimated, the room was almost preternaturally tidy, and now he knew why the Kripo had refrained from leaving their usual mess. A senators nephew! No wonder they were on their best behavior.

The clothes were neatly put away: shirts, jacket and suit in the wardrobe, socks and underwear in drawers. There was a small pile of papers on the deskleft for show, Russell guessed. He remembered two great towers of paper on his last visit. The desk, too, had been mostly emptied. One drawer contained a single eraser, another, three pencils. It was as if the Kripo had decided to spread things out.

There was no obvious reduction in the number of books, but the lines on the shelves seemed anything but neat. Each had been taken out and checked for insertions, Russell assumed. Well, at least that meant he didn't have to.

The same applied to the floorboards. The Kripo werent amateurs. Far from it.

He sat on McKinleys bed, wondering why hed imagined he could find something which they couldn't. The shelf above the headboard was full of crime novels, all in English. More than fifty, Russell guessed: Dashiell Hammett, Edgar Wallace, Dorothy L. Sayers, several authors he hadn't heard of. There were around a dozen Agatha Christies, and a similar number of Saint books. Russells earlier notion that McKinley had stolen an idea from one of these stories still seemed a good one, but the only way of finding out for certain was to go through them all, and that would take forever.

And what would he do with the letter if he found it? He had no proof of its authenticity, and without such proof there was little chance of anonymously arranging its publication outside Germany. He would have to guarantee it with what was left of his own reputation, either risking arrest by doing so inside Germany or forfeiting his residence by doing so from the safety of England. Neither course appealed to him. And their secret will stay secret, he murmured to himself. He took one last look around the room and took the key back to Frau Heidegger.

EARLY THAT EVENING HE telephoned Paul. The conversation seemed unusually awkward at first. His son seemed happy to talk, but there was something in his voice which worried Russell, some faint edge of resentment that was quite possibly unconscious. His Jungvolk group had spent much of Saturday making model gliders out of balsa wood and glue, something which Paul had obviously enjoyed, and on the coming Saturday they were visiting an airfield to examine the real thing. At school a new music teacher had given them a talk on the different types of music, and how some of themjazz for examplewere fatally tainted by their racial origins. He had even played several pieces on the school gramophone, pointing out what he called animal rhythms. I suppose hes right, Paul said. I mean, jazz was invented by negroes, wasnt it? But most of my friends thought the records he played were really good, he admitted.

Russell searched in vain for an adequate response.

What are you doing? Paul asked, somewhat unusually.

This and that, Russell said. Paul was probably too old to have nightmares about falling under trains, but it wasnt worth the risk. Actually Im looking for something that someone hid, he said. If the Saint wants to hide something, how does he do it? he asked, not really expecting an answer.

What sort of thing?

Oh, money, a letter. . . .

Thats easy. He sends it to himself. At awhat do you call it?

Poste restante.

Thats it. He sends diamonds to himself in Getaway and The High Fence. And he does it in another story, I think. I cant remember which, though. . . .

Russell was no longer listening. Of course. If McKinley had forgotten the Saints trick, then Theresas use of the poste restante would have reminded him. His heart sank. There was no way of collecting anything from a poste restante without identification. McKinleys sister could probably get access, but only by asking permission from the police.

Dad, are you listening?

Yes, sorryI think youve solved it for me.

Oh.

And Im reading the book you loaned me, he added, eager to please his son.

Isnt it great?

Its pretty good, Russell agreed, though hed only read thirty pages. I havent got far, he admitted, hoping to ward off a cross-examination. Ill talk to you about it on Saturday.

Okay. On Sunday are we getting the train from Anhalter Bahnhof?

I expect so. Ill let you know. Actually, a different means of transport was suggesting itself.

THE FIRST DAY OF FEBRUARY was as gray as nature intended. His Wednesday morning lesson with Ruth and Marthe was enjoyable as ever, but there was no sign of their brother or parents. Arriving back at Alexanderplatz with twenty minutes to spare he stopped for a coffee in Wertheim and ran into Doug Conway. They chatted for a few minutes, until Russell realized he was late for his appointment. The search for Oehms office made him even later, and McKinleys sister was looking none-too-happy when he finally arrived.

We were talking about Fraulein McKinleys flying boat, Oehm said, which further explained her look of irritation.