Zoo Station

She was almost as tall as her brotherabout five-foot-eleven, he guessedand even thinner. Severely cut brunette hair framed a face that might have been pretty if the already-thin lips had not been half-pursed in disapproval, but Russell sensed that her current expression was the one she most usually presented to the world. She was wearing a cream blouse and smart, deep blue suit. There was no hint of black and no obvious sign of grief in her face. He told himself that shed had several days to take it all in.

He introduced himself and offered his condolences.

Eleanor McKinley, she responded. Tyler never mentioned you.

We werent close friends, just neighbors. Im here because the police thought an interpreter would make things easier for everyone. Have they told you what happened?

Oh, we got all the details from the Germany Embassy in Washington. A man came out to the house and explained everything.

Russell wondered what to say next. He found it hard to credit that the family believed Tyler had committed suicide, but it was hardly his place to question it, particularly with Oehm trying to follow their conversation.

The German interrupted. There are papers to sign. He passed them to Russell. If you could. . . .

Russell looked through them, and then explained the gist to Eleanor McKinley. There are two things here. One is an account of the investigation, complete with witness statements and the police conclusion that Tyler committed suicide. They need your signature to sign off on the case. The other form waives your familys right to an inquest. This is because youre taking him home with you.

I understand, she said.

Ill read it through, then.

No, no, dont bother, she said, extracting a pack of Chesterfields from her handbag. You wont mind if I smoke? she asked Oehm, holding up a cigarette in explanation.

Russell was taken aback. You understand that youre accepting their version of events, that this exempts them from any further investigation? he asked.

Are there any other versions? she asked.

No. I just wanted to be sure you knew that this puts an end to any. . . .

Good, she interrupted. She made a writing mime at Oehm, who handed her his pen.

Here and here, Russell said, placing the papers in front of her. She signed both, writing Eleanor V. McKinley in a large looping hand.

Is that it? she asked.

Thats it.

What about Tylers . . . what about the body?

Russell asked Oehm. It was still in the morgue, he thought, reaching for the phone.

It was. They need her for a formal identification before they can release it, Oehm told Russell in German. But not nowtheyre still trying to repair his face. If she comes at eleven in the morning theyll have plenty of time to seal it for transport and get it across to Lehrter.

Russell relayed the salient points.

Cant we do it now? she asked.

No, Im afraid not.

She made a face, but didn't press the issue. All right. Well, lets get out of this dreadful place. She offered Oehm her hand and the briefest of smiles, and headed for the door. I suppose I can get the apartment over with instead, she said as they walked back to the entrance. Youll come with me, she added. It was more of an assumption than a question.

They took a taxi. She said nothing as they drove through the old city, just stared out of the window. As they swung through Spittelmarkt toward Donhoffplatz and the bottom of Lindenstrasse she murmured something to herself, then turned to Russell and said: Ive never seen such a gray city.

The weather doesnt help, he said.

She was even less impressed with Neuenburgerstrasse. Frau Heidegger climbed the stairs to let them in, and insisted that Russell pass on her deepest condolences. And tell Fraulein McKinley how much I liked her brother, she added. How much we all did.

Russell did as he was bid, and McKinleys sister flashed another of her brief smiles in Frau Heideggers direction. Tell her wed like to be alone, she said in English.

Russell passed on the message. Frau Heidegger looked slightly hurt, but disappeared down the stairs.

Eleanor sat down on the bed looking, for the first time, as if her brothers death meant something to her.

Now was the moment, Russell thought. He had to say something. I find it hard to believe that your brother killed himself, he said tentatively.

She sighed. Well, he did. One way or another.

Im sorry. . . .

She got up and walked to the window. I dont know how much you knew about Tylers work. . . .

I knew he was working on something important.

Exposing some terrible Nazi plot? she asked.

Maybe. She was angry, he realized. Furious.

Well, that was a pretty effective way of committing suicide, wouldn't you say?

Russell bit back an answer. Hed said much the same thing to McKinley himself.

Look at this, she said, surveying the room. The life he chose, she said bitterly.

That you couldn't, Russell thought. He silently abandoned the idea of asking for her help in checking out the poste restante.

She picked up McKinleys pipe, looked around, and took one of his socks to wrap it in. Ill take this, she said. Can you get rid of the rest?

Yes, but. . . .

I cant imagine it would be much use to anyone else.

Okay.

He accompanied her downstairs and out to the waiting taxi.

Thank you for your help, she said. I dont suppose youre free tomorrow morning? I could use some help at the morgue. My train leaves at three and I cant afford any hold-ups. And some moral support would be nice, she added, as if it had just occurred to her that identifying her brother might involve an emotional toll. Ill buy you lunch.

Russell felt like refusing, but he had no other appointments. Be generous, he told himself. Its a deal, he said.

Pick me up at the Adlon, she told him. Around ten-thirty.

He watched the cab turn the corner onto Lindenstrasse and disappear. He felt sorry for McKinley, and perhaps even sorrier for his sister.

HE ARRIVED AT THE ADLON just before 10:00, and found Jack Slaney sitting behind a newspaper in the tea room. Ive got something for you, Russell said, sitting down and counting out the ninety Reichsmarks he owed from their last poker game.

A sudden inheritance? Slaney asked.

Something like that.

What are you doing here? the American asked, as he gestured the waiter over to order coffees.

Russell told him.

He was a nice kid, Slaney said. Shame about his family.

The uncles not one of your favorite senators?

Slaney laughed. Hes a big friend of the Nazis. Anti-Semitic through and throughthe usual broken record. On the one hand, we should be leaving Europe alone, on the other, we should be realizing that Britain and France are on their last legs and Germanys a progressive power-house, our natural ally. Bottom lineits just business as usual. The Senators brotherMcKinleys dadhas a lot of money invested here. One plant in Dusseldorf, another in Stuttgart. Theyll do well out of a war, as long as we stay out of it.

The daughters not exactly soft and cuddly, Russell admitted.

I know. Hey! Slaney interrupted himself. Have you heard the latest? Over the weekend some Swedish member of Parliament nominated Hitler for the Nobel Peace Prize. Wrote a letter of recommendation and everything. Slaney flipped back the pages of his notebook. He praised Hitlers glowing love of peace, heretofore best documented in his famous book Mein Kampf.

A spoof, right?

Of course. But at least one German paper missed that bit. They printed the whole thing as if it was completely kosher. He threw back his head and laughed out loud, drawing stares from across the room.

At 10:30 Russell asked the receptionist to let Eleanor know he was in the lobby. She appeared a couple of minutes later. The suit was a deep crimson this time, and she was wearing a silk scarf that was a shimmering gold. Her heels were higher than on the previous day, the seams of her stockings straight as arrows. The fur coat looked expensive. It doesnt look like theyre getting ready for a war, she said, as their cab motored down Unter den Linden.

The morgue was ready for them. McKinleys body was laid out on a stretcher in the middle of the spacious cold storeroom. She marched confidently forward, heels clicking on the polished floor, then suddenly faltered and looked back at Russell. He came forward, took her arm, and together they advanced on the stretcher.

A white sheet concealed whatever injuries her brother had suffered below the neck. The familiar shock of dark hair had been burned away at the front, and the entire left side of his face looked blackened beneath the morticians make-up. The eyes looked as though theyd been re-inserted in their sockets; one was not quite closed, and presumably never would be again. The bottom lip had been sewn back on, probably after McKinley had bitten clean through it. An angry red-brown wound extended around the Americans neck above the uppermost edge of sheet, causing Russell to wonder whether he had been decapitated.

Its him, Eleanor said in a voice quivering with control. She signed the necessary documentation on the small table by the door and left the room without a backward glance. During the first part of their ride back to the Adlon she sat in silence, staring out of the window, an angry expression on her face. As they crossed over Friedrichstrasse she asked Russell how long hed lived in Berlin, but hardly listened to his answer.

Come up, she said when they reached the lobby, and gave him a quick glance to make sure he hadn't read anything into the invitation.

Her suite was modest, but a suite just the same. An open suitcase sat on the bed, half-filled with clothes, surrounded by bits and pieces. Ill only be a minute, she said, and disappeared into the bathroom.

An item on the bed had already caught Russells eyeone of the small gray canvas bags that the Kripo used for storing personal effects.

There was no sound from the bathroom. Now or never, he told himself.

He took one stride to the bed, loosened the string, and looked inside the bag. It was almost empty. He poured the contents onto the bed and sorted through them with his fingers. A reporters notebookalmost empty. German notesalmost 300 Reichsmarks worth. McKinleys press accreditation. His passport.

The toilet flushed.

Russell slipped the passport into his pocket, rammed the rest back into the bag, tightened the string, and stepped hastily away from the bed.

She came out of the bathroom, looked at the mess on the bed, staring, or so it seemed to Russell, straight at the bag. She reached down, picked it up . . . and placed it in the suitcase. I thought wed eat here, she said.

FIVE MINUTES LATER, they were being seated in the hotel restaurant. Having locked her brother away in some sort of emotional box, she chatted happily about America, her dog, the casting of Vivien Leigh as Scarlett OHara in the new film of Gone with the Wind. It was all very brittle, but brittle was what she was.

After they had eaten he watched her look around the room, and tried to see it through her eyes: a crowd of smart people, most of the women fashionably dressed, many of the men in perfectly tailored uniforms. Eating good food, drinking fine wines. Just like home.

Do you think therell be a war? she asked abruptly.

Probably, he said.

But what could they gain from one? she asked, genuinely puzzled. I mean, you can see how prosperous the country is, how content. Why risk all that?

Russell had no wish to talk politics with her. He shrugged agreement with her bewilderment and asked how the flight across the Atlantic had been.

Awful, she said. So noisy, though I got used to that after a while. But its a horrible feeling, being over the middle of the ocean and knowing that theres no help for thousands of miles.

Are you going back the same way?

Oh no. It was Daddy who insisted I come that way. He thought it was important that I got here quickly, though I cant imagine why. No, Im going back by ship. From Hamburg. My train leaves at three, she added, checking her watch. Will you take me to the station?

Of course.

Upstairs he watched her cram her remaining possessions into the suitcase, and breathed a silent sigh of relief when she asked him to close it for her. A taxi took them to the Lehrter Bahnhof, where the D-Zug express was already waiting in its platform, car attendants hovering at each door.

Thank you for your help, she said, holding out a hand.

Im sorry about the circumstances, Russell said.

Yes, she agreed, but more in exasperation than sadness. As he turned away she was reaching for her cigarettes.

Near the front of the train three porters were manhandling a coffin into the baggage car. Russell paused in his stride, and watched as they set it down with a thump by the far wall. Show some respect, he felt like saying, but what was the point? He walked on, climbing the steps to the Stadtbahn platforms which hung above the mainline stations throat. A train rattled in almost instantly, and three minutes later he was burrowing down to the U-bahn platforms at Friedrichstrasse. He read an abandoned Volkischer Beobachter on the journey to Neukolln, but the only item of interest concerned the Party student leader in Heidelberg. He had forbidden his students from dancing the Lambeth Walka jaunty Cockney dance, recently popularized on the London stageon the grounds that it was foreign to the German way of life, and incompatible with National Socialist behavior.

How many Germans, Russell wondered, were itching to dance the Lambeth Walk?

Not the family in Zembskis studio, that was certain. They were there to have their portrait taken, the father in SA uniform, the wife in her church best, the three blond daughters all in pigtails, wearing freshly ironed BdM uniforms. Nazi heaven.

Russell watched as the big Silesian lumbered around, checking the lighting and the arrangement of the fake living room setting. Finally he was satisfied. Smile, he said, and clicked the shutter. One more, he said, and smile this time. The wife did; the girls tried, but the father was committed to looking stern.

Russell wondered what was going through Zembskis mind at moments like this. He had only known the Silesian for a few years, but hed heard of him long before that. In the German communist circles which he and Ilse had once frequented, Zembski had been known as a reliable source for all sorts of photographic services, and strongly rumored to be a key member of the Pass-Apparat, the Berlin-based Comintern factory for forged passports and other documents. Russell had never admitted his knowledge of Zembskis past. But it was one of the reasons why he used him for his photographic needs. That and the fact that he liked the man. And his low prices.

He watched as Zembski ushered the family out into the street with promises of prints by the weekend. Closing the door behind them he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Is smiling so hard? he asked rhetorically. But of course, hell love it. I only hope the wife doesnt get beaten to a pulp for looking happy. He walked across to the arc lights and turned them off. And what can I do for you, Mister Russell?

Russell nodded toward the small office which adjoined the studio.

Zembski looked at him, shrugged, and gestured him in. Two chairs were squeezed in on either side of a desk. I hope its pornography rather than politics, he said once they were inside. Though these days its hard to tell the difference.

Russell showed him McKinleys passport. I need my photograph in this. I was hoping youd either do it for me or teach me how to do it myself.

Zembski looked less than happy. What makes you think Id know?

I was in the Party myself once.

Zembskis eyebrows shot up. Ah. A lots changed since then, my friend.

Yes, but theyre probably still using the same glue on passports. And you probably remember which remover to use.

Zembski nodded. Not the sort of thing you forget. He studied McKinleys passport. Who is he?

Was. Hes the American journalist who jumped in front of a train at Zoo Station last weekend. Allegedly jumped.

Better and better, the Silesian said dryly. He opened a drawer, pulled out a magnifying glass, and studied the photograph. Looks simple enough.

Youll do it?

Zembski leaned back in his chair, causing it to squeak with apprehension. Why not?

How much?

Ah. That depends. Whats it for? I dont want details, he added hurriedly, just some assurance that it wont end up on a Gestapo desk.

I need it to recover some papers. For a story.

Not a Fuhrer-friendly story?

No.

Then Ill give you a discount for meaning well. But itll still cost you a hundred Reichsmarks.

Fair enough.

Cash.

Right.

Ill take the picture now then, Zembski said, maneuvering his bulk out of the confined space and through the door into the studio. A plain background, he muttered out loud as he studied the original photograph. Thisll do, he said, pushing a screen against a wall and placing a stool in front of it.

Russell sat on it.

Zembski lifted his camera, tripod and all, and placed it in position. After feeding in a new film, he squinted through the lens. Try and look like an American, he ordered.

How the hell do I do that? Russell asked.

Look optimistic.

Ill try. He did.

I said optimistic, not doe-eyed.

Russell grinned, and the shutter clicked.

Lets try a serious one, Zembski ordered.

Russell pursed his lips.

The shutter clicked again. And again. And several more times. Thatll do, the Silesian said at last. Ill have it for you on Monday.

Thanks. Russell stood up. One other thing. You dont by any chance know of a good place to pick up a secondhand car?

Zembski dida cousin in Wedding owned a garage which often had cars to sell. Tell him I sent you, he said, after giving Russell directions, and you may get another discount. We Silesians are all heart, he added, chins wobbling with merriment.

Russell walked the short distance back to the U-bahn, then changed his mind and took a seat in the shelter by the tram stop. Gazing back down the brightly lit Berlinerstrasse toward Zembskis studio, he wondered whether hed just crossed a very dangerous line. No, he reassured himself, all hed done was commission a false passport. He would cross the line when he made use of it.

AFTER TEACHING THE WIESNER girls the next morning, Russell headed across town in search of Zembskis cousin. He found the garage on one of Weddings back streets, sandwiched between a brewery and the back wall of a locomotive depot, about half a kilometer from the Lehrter Station. Zembskis cousin Hunder was also a large man, and looked a lot fitter than Zembski. He seemed to have half a dozen young men working for him, most of them barely beyond school age.

The cars for sale were lined around the back. There were four of them: a Hanomag, an Opel, a Hansa-Lloyd, and another Opel. Any color you want as long as its black, Russell murmured.

We can re-spray, Hunder told him.

No, blacks good, Russell said. The more anonymous the better, he thought. How much are they? he asked.

Hunder listed the prices. Plus a ten percent discount for a friend of my cousin, he added. And a full tank. And a months guarantee.

The larger Hansa-Lloyd looked elegant, but was way out of Russells monetary reach. And he had never liked the look of Opels.

Can I take the Hanomag out for a drive? he asked.

You do know how? Hunder inquired.

Yes. He had driven lorries in the War, and much later he and Ilse had actually owned a car, an early Ford, which had died ignominiously on the road to Potsdam soon after their marriage met a similar fate.

He climbed into the driving-seat, waved the nervous-looking Hunder a cheerful goodbye, and turned out of the garage yard. It felt strange after all those years, but straightforward enough. He drove up past the sprawling Lehrter goods yards, back through the center of Moabit, and up Invalidenstrasse. The car was a bit shabby inside, but it handled well, and the engine sounded smooth enough.

He stopped by the side of the Humboldt canal basin and wormed his way under the chassis. There was a bit of rust, but not too much. No sign of leakages, and nothing seemed about to fall off. Brushing himself down, he walked around the vehicle. The engine compartment looked efficient enough. The tires would need replacing, but not immediately. The lights worked. It wasnt exactly an Austro-Daimler, but it would have to do.

He drove back to the garage and told Hunder hed take it. As he wrote out the check, he reminded himself how much hed be saving on tram and train tickets.

It was still early afternoon as he drove home, and the streets, with the exception of Potsdamerplatz, were relatively quiet. He parked in the courtyard, and borrowed a bucket, sponge, and brush from an excited Frau Heidegger. She watched from the step as he washed the outside and cleaned the inside, her face full of anticipation. A quick drive, he offered, and she needed no second bidding. He took them through Hallesches Tor and up to Viktoria Park, listening carefully for any sign that the engine was bothered by the gradient. There was none. I havent been up here for years, Frau Heidegger exclaimed, peering through the windshield at the Berlin panorama as they coasted back down the hill.

Effi was just as excited a couple of hours later. Her anger at his late arrival evaporated the moment she saw the car. Teach me to drive, she insisted.

Russell knew that both her father and ex-husband had refused to teach her, the first because he feared for his car, the second because he feared for his social reputation. Women were not encouraged to drive in the new Germany. Okay, he agreed, but not tonight, he added, as she made for the drivers seat.

It was a ten-minute drive to the Conways modern apartment block in Wilmersdorf, and the Hanomag looked somewhat overawed by the other cars parked outside. Dont worry, Effi said, patting its hood. We need a name, she told Russell. Something old and reliable. How about Hindenburg?

Hes dead, Russell objected.

I suppose so. How about Mother?

Mine isnt reliable.

Oh all right. Ill think about it.

They were the last to arrive. Phyllis Conway was still putting the children to bed, leaving Doug to dispense the drinks. He introduced Russell and Effi to the other three couples, two of whomthe Neumaiers and the Auerswere German. Hans Neumaier worked in banking, and his wife looked after their children. Rolf and Freya Auer owned an art gallery. Conways replacement, Martin Unsworth, and his wife Fay made up the third couple. Everyone present, Russell reckoned, either was approaching, was enjoying or had recently departed their thirties. Hans Neumaier was probably the oldest, Fay Unsworth the youngest.

Effi disappeared to read the children a bedtime story, leaving Russell and Doug Conway alone by the drinks table. I asked the Wiesners, Conway told him. I went out to see them. He shook his head. They were pleased to be asked, I think, but they wouldn't come. Dont want to risk drawing attention to themselves while theyre waiting for their visas, I suppose. They speak highly of you, by the way.

Is there nothing you can do to speed up their visas?

Nothing. Ive tried, believe me. Im beginning to think that someone in the system doesnt like them.

Why, for Gods sake?

I dont know. Ill keep trying, but. . . . He let the word hang. Oh, he said, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out two tickets. I was given these today. Brahms and something else, at the Philharmonie, tomorrow evening. Would you like them? We cant go.

Thanks. Effill be pleased.

Whats she doing now? Barbarossa has finished, hasnt it?

Yes. But youd better ask her about the next project.

Conway grinned. I will. Come on, wed better join the others.

The evening went well. The conversation flowed through dinner and beyond, almost wholly in German, the two Conways taking turns at providing translation for Fay Unsworth. The two German men were of a type: scions of upper middle class families who still prospered under the Nazis but who, in foreign company especially, were eager to demonstrate how embarrassed they were by their government. They and Freya Auer lapped up Effis account of the Mother storyline, bursting into ironic applause when she described the hospital bed denouement. Only Ute Neumaier looked uncomfortable. Among her fellow housewives in Grunewald she would probably give the story a very different slant.

Rolf Auer was encouraged to recount some news hed heard that afternoon. Five of Germanys most famous cabaret comediansWerner Finck, Peter Sachse, and the Three Rulandshad been expelled from the Reich Cultural Chamber by Goebbels. They wouldn't be able to work in Germany again.

When was this announced? Russell asked.

It hasnt been yet. Goebbels has a big piece in the Beobachter tomorrow morning. Its in there.

Last time I saw Finck at the Kabarett, Russell said, he announced that the old German fairytale section had been removed from the program, but that thered be a political lecture later.

Everyone laughed.

Itll be hard for any of them to get work elsewhere, Effi said. Their sort of comedys all about language.

Theyll have to go into hibernation until its all over, Phyllis said.

Like so much else, her husband agreed.

Where has all the modern art gone? Effi asked the Auers. Six years ago there must have thousands of modern paintings in Germanythe Blau Reiter group, the Expressionists before them, the Cubists. Where are they all?

A lot of them are boxed up in cellars, Rolf Auer admitted. A lot were taken abroad in the first year or so, but since then. . . . A lot were owned by Jews, and most of those have been sold, usually at knockdown prices. Mostly by people who think theyll make a good profit one day, sometimes by people who really care about them as art and want to preserve them for the future.

It sounded as if the Auers had a few in their cellar. Ive heard Hermanns building up his collection, Russell observed.

He has good taste, Auer conceded with only the faintest hint of sarcasm.

The conversation moved on to architecture and Speers plans for the new Berlin. Russell watched and listened. It was a civilized conversation, he thought. But the civilization concerned was treading water. There was an implied acceptance that things had slipped out of joint, that some sort of correction was needed, and that until that correction came along, and normal service was resumed, they were stuck in a state of suspended animation. The Conways, he saw, were only too glad to be out of it; America would be a paradise after this. The Unsworths didn't have a clue what they were getting into and, unless they were much more perceptive than they seemed, would draw all the wrong conclusions from gatherings like this one. But the three German coupleshe included himself and Effiwere just waiting for the world to move on, waiting at the Fuhrers pleasure.

Whatll happen to you if theres a war? Unsworth was asking him.

Ill be on the same train as you, I expect, Russell told him. Across the table, Effi made a face.

Thatll be hard, after living here for so long.

It will. I have a son here, too. Russell shrugged. But itll be that or internment.

In the way home, sitting in a line of traffic at the eastern end of the Kudamm, Effi suddenly turned to him and said: I dont want to lose you.

I dont want to lose you either.

She slipped an arm through his. How long do you think a war will last?

Ive no idea. Years, at least.

Maybe we should think about leaving. I know, she added quickly, that you dont want to leave Paul. But if theres a war and they lock you up youll be leaving him anyway. And we . . . oh I dont know. Its all so ridiculous.

Russell moved the car forward a few meters. Its something to think about. And it was. She was righthed lose Paul anyway. And he couldn't spend the rest of his life clinging to the boy. It wasnt fair to her. It probably wasnt fair to Paul.

I dont want to go either, but. . . .

I know. I think weve got a few months at least. He leaned over and kissed her, which drew an angry blow of the horn from the car behind them. And I cant let Paul run my whole life, he said, testing the thought out loud as he released the clutch.

Not forever, anyway. Has he seen the car yet?

No. Tomorrow.

THERE WAS SUNSHINE ON SATURDAY, the first in a week. He arrived at the Gehrts household soon after two, and felt somewhat deflated by the sight of Matthiass Horch. How had he expected Paul to get excited by a 1928 Hanomag?

He needn't have worried. His son, happily changed out of his Jungvolk uniform, was thrilled by the car, and thrilled by their exhilarating 100kph dash down the new Avus Speedway, which connected the eastern end of the Kudamm to the first completed stretch of the Berlin orbital outside Potsdam. On their way back they stopped for ice cream at a cafe overlooking the Wannsee, and Russell allowed his son to work the petrol pump at the adjoining garage. FatherI mean Matthiaswouldn't let me do this, Paul said, anxiously scanning Russells face for signs of hurt or anger at his slip.

Its okay. You can call him father, Russell said. Short for stepfather.

All right, Paul agreed.

During their four hours together, his son showed none of the reticence hed displayed on the phone. Just a passing something, Russell hoped. He had a wonderful afternoon.

The evening wasnt bad either. Effi looked stunning in another new dressMother was certainly paying welland three members of the Philharmonie audience came up and asked for her autograph, which pleased her no end. Unlike Russell she had been brought up on a diet of classical music, and sat in rapt attention while his wandered. Looking round the auditorium, it occurred to him that this was one of the places where nothing much had changed. The music was judenfrei, of course, and Hitlers picture dominated the lobby, but the same stiff-necked, overdressed people were filling the seats, wafting their fans, and rustling their programs. It could have been 1928. Or even 1908. All across Germany there were people living in time bubbles like this one. That was the way it was, and would be, until Hitler marched across one border too many and burst them all.

Russell couldn't complain about the effect the music had on Effishe insisted on their going straight home to make love. Afterward, lying in an exhausted heap among the tangled sheets, they laughed at the trail of clothes disappearing into the living room. Like our first time, remember? Effi said.

Russell couldn't remember a better day, and hated to spoil it. Ive got something to tell you, he said, propping himself up against the headboard. You know I said Id heard rumors that they were planning to change the Law on the Prevention of Hereditary Diseases?

Yes. She sat up too.

I didn't.

Then why. . . ?

Tyler McKinley was working on a story about it. He got me to go with him when he interviewed this woman in Neukolln. Russell told her about Theresa Jurissen, about Marietta, about the KdF letter to clinic heads and what she had claimed was in it.

Why didn't you tell me? Effi asked, more surprised than angry.

Because youd have to tell Zarah, and Zarah would have to tell Jens, and Id have to explain where I got the information from. He looked her in the face. McKinleys dead, Effi. And he didn't commit suicide. He was murdered.

She took that in, looking, Russell thought, extraordinarily beautiful.

So why are you telling me now? she asked calmly.

He sighed. Because I hate keeping things from you. Because I owe it to Zarah. I dont know. Could you swear Zarah to secrecy, do you think?

Maybe. But in any case I dont think Jens would turn you in. Zarah would certainly kill him if he did. For my sake, of course, not yours.

Of course.

Butand I hate to say thisgiven how Zarah feels about you, shell want more than your word. So will he. Theyll want some sort of proof.

I dont blame them. Whens that appointment you mentioned?

Monday.

She should put it off.

How will that help?

He explained about McKinleys passport and Zembskis commission. On Tuesday I can pick up the letter and whatever else McKinley had.

Youre going to claim it using a bogus passport? Isnt that risky? What if they remember McKinley from when he handed it in?

He wouldn't have handed it inhed have posted it. Itll be okay.

Are you sure?

He laughed. No, of course not.

SUNDAY WAS ANOTHER COLD BRIGHT DAY. Russell picked his son up in Grunewald soon after 10:00, and headed for Potsdam on the Avus Speedway. From there they took the Leipzig road, driving southwest through Treuenbrietzen and over the hills to Wittenberg, stopping for an early lunch by the bridge across the Elbe. They reached Leipzig ninety minutes ahead of kickoff and did a quick spin round the town center, with its imposing eighteenth-century residences, myriad publishing houses, and enormous Hauptbahnhof. Paul, though, was eager to reach the field, and seemed somewhat lacking in faith that his father would find it in time.

He found it with twenty minutes to spare. They followed another father-son couple wearing Hertha colors through the turnstiles, and worked their way around to where the hundred or so others whod made the trip from Berlin were standing, behind one of the goals. The stadium was bigger than the Plumpe, and seemed almost full for this cup tie. Standing there waiting for the teams to come out, watching the flicker of matches being struck in the shadowed grandstand, Russell felt a sudden surge of sadness. Another time bubble, he thought.

The home crowd greeted their team with a hearty roar, but that was almost the last thing they had to cheer. The home team had one of those afternoons, doing everything but score on numerous occasions, before making one fatal mistake at the end. Paul was ecstatic, and quite unwilling to admit there was anything undeserved in Herthas victory. Its about goals, Dad, he said trenchantly, before Russell could suggest anything to the contrary. On the way out, Paul scanned the ground for a discarded program and finally found one. For Joachim, he said triumphantly.

Russell had thought about inviting Thomas and Joachim to join them, but had decided he wanted the time alone with his son. If Paul wanted to get something off his chest, he wouldn't do it with Thomas and Joachim in the car.

The decision bore fruit, though hardly in the way Russell had expected. It was dark by the time they left Leipzig, the road lit only by their own lights and the occasional passage of a vehicle in the opposite direction. On either side the darkness was only relieved by the dim lights of an occasional farm.

They had been driving about ten minutes when Paul broke the silence. Dad, I think you should move to England, he blurted out, as if he couldn't hold the thought in any longer.

Why? Russell asked, though he could guess the answer.

Well, you cant help being English, can you?

No, I cant.

But that wont help. I mean it doesnt help the Jews, does it?

No, Russell agreed. What made you think about this? he asked. Has something happened? Has someone said something? He half-expected to find that Paul had overheard a conversation between his mother and stepfather.

Not exactly, Paul replied. At the Jungvolk . . . no one has actually said anything, but they know Im half-English, and when they look at me its like theyre not sure whose side Im on. Im not saying its bad being half-Englishits not like being half-Jewish or half-Polish or anything like thatand if theres a war with England I can tell everyone Im loyal to the Fuhrer, but you wont be able to do that. I dont think youll be safe in Germany. Youll be much safer in England.

Maybe, Russell said, for want of something better.

Wouldn't Effi go with you?

She might.

I really like her, you know.

I know you do. And Im glad.

I dont want you to go. I just. . . .

What?

I just dont want you to stay for my sake. I mean, Im twelve next month. Its not like Ill be a child for much longer.

I think you have a few more years yet.

Okay, but. . . .

I understand what youre saying. And I appreciate it. But I dont want you to worry about this. If a war comes Ill probably have to leavethere wont be any choice. But until then, well, I cant leave while were still in the Cup, can I?

AFTER DROPPING PAUL OFF, Russell found a bar off Hochmeisterplatz and sat for almost an hour nursing an expensive double whisky. His life seemed to be breaking up in slow motion, with no clear indication of where any of the pieces might land. Moving to England might seem like a sensible move, but it was sensible moves which had landed him in his current predicament. The peculiarity of his situation, he thought, might be a double-edged sword. It could be the death of him, or at least the death of those relationships which had made his life worth living for the last few years. There was no doubt about that. But was there also a chance that he could exploit that situation to save himself, and those relationships? Shchepkin, Kleist, and Trelawney-Smythe had no compunction about making use of him, and he felt none about making use of them. But could he pull it off? Was he still quick enough on his feet? And was he brave enough to find out?

Driving east along the Kudamm toward Effis, he realized he didn't know. But that, he told himself, the Wiesners uppermost in his mind, was another sign of the times. When the time bubbles burst, you got to find out all sorts of things about yourself that you probably didn't want to know. And maybe, if you were lucky, a few things that you did.

Arriving at Effis flat, he was almost bundled into the kitchen by Effi herself. Zarahs here, she whispered. Ive told her about the letter to the asylum directors, but nothing about you knowing where it is now. Or the passport. Okay?

Okay, Russell agreed.

Lothar was there too, sitting on the sofa with his mother and a picture book.

You remember Uncle John? Effi asked him.

No, he said authoritatively, looking up briefly and deciding that Russell was less interesting than his book. If there was anything wrong with him, it wasnt the same thing that afflicted Marietta.

Russell leaned down to kiss Zarahs upturned cheek. Effis older sister was an attractive woman of 35, taller and bigger-boned than Effi, with larger breasts and wider hips. Her wavy chestnut hair, which usually fell to her shoulders, was tonight constrained in a tight bun, and there were dark circles of either tiredness or sadness around her brown eyes. Russell had never disliked Zarah, but he had never felt any real connection either. She had none of her younger sisters fearless appetite for life: Zarah was the careful, responsible one, the one who had always sought safety in conventionality, whether of ideas or husbands. Her only redeeming feature, as far as Russell was concerned, was her obvious devotion to Effi.

Effi told me what you told her, she said, but I want to hear it from you.

Russell retold the story of his and McKinleys visit to Theresa Jurissen, omitting her name.

She stole this letter? Zarah asked, as if she couldn't believe people did things like that.

She was desperate.

That I can understand, Zarah said, glancing sideways at the happily engaged Lothar. But are you sure she was telling the truth?

As sure as I can be.

But you dont know any of the details of this new law those doctors were talking about? What it will say. Who it will affect.

No. But whatever it says, the first thing theyll need is a register of all those suffering from the various conditions. All the institutions and doctors will be asked to submit lists, so that they know exactly what theyre dealing with. And any child on that list will be subject to the new law, whatever it is. Thats why I think you should cancel your appointment. Wait until I can tell you more.

But when will that be?

Soon, I hope.

But what if it isnt? She was, Russell realized, on the verge of tears. I have to talk to someone about him.

Russell had an idea. How about abroad? Go to Holland or France. Or England even. See a specialist there. No one here will know.

He watched her eyes harden as she remembered the aborted abortion, then soften again as the idea impressed itself. I could, couldn't I? she said, half to herself, half to Effi. Thank you, John, she said to him.

Will Jens agree to that? Effi asked.

Yes, I think so.

You do understand how dangerous this will be for John if anyone finds out he knows about this law? Effi insisted.

Oh yes.

And youll make sure Jens understands it too.

Yes, yes. I know you disagree about politics, she told Russell, but Jens is as crazy about Lothar as I am. Believe me, even the Fuhrer comes a long way second. Jens will do anything for his son.

Russell hoped she was right. After driving Zarah and Lothar home to Grunewald he watched Jens in the lighted doorway, picking up his son with every sign of fatherly devotion, and felt somewhat reassured. In the seat next to him, Effi sighed. Did you see anything wrong with Lothar? she asked.

No, Russell said, but Zarah sees more of him than anyone else.

I hope shes wrong.

Of course.

How was your day with Paul?

Good. Hes away again next weekend.

Then lets go away, Effi said. I start filming on the Monday after, and Ill hardly see you for two weeks after that. Lets go somewhere.

How about Rugen Island?

Thatd be lovely.

We can drive up on Friday afternoon, come back Sunday. Ill teach you to drive.

RUSSELL WOKE EARLY, with an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach which toast and coffee did nothing to dispel. Are you going to get the passport today? Effi asked, brushing hair out of her eyes to receive the coffee hed brought her in bed.

I hope so.

Do you want me to come with you? As cover or something?

No thanks. Youd make me even more anxious. He kissed her, promised to ring the moment he had something to tell, and walked out to the car. There was no sign of the weekend sunshine; a thick blanket of almost motionless cloud hung over the city, low enough to brush the spires of the Memorial Church. As he drove on down Tauenzienstrasse, Russell decided to leave the car at homethe Ubahn seemed more anonymous. On arrival, he steeled himself to refuse a coffee from Frau Heidegger, but she was nowhere to be seen. Freshly attired, he was soon on the train to Neukolln.

Zembski had the passport waiting in a desk drawer. A nice job, if I say so myself, he muttered, using a photographers dark-sack to pick it up and hand it over. You should keep your own fingerprints off it, he advised. And pleaseburn it the moment youre finished with it. Ive already burned the negatives.

I will, Russell said, examining the photograph inside. It looked as though it had always been there.

He walked back to the U-bahn station, hyper-conscious of the passport in his pocket. Pretending to be McKinley might get him through a spot check, but anything more rigorous and hed be in real, real trouble. The passport was far too big to eat, though he supposed he could just tear the picture out and eat that. Explaining why hed done so might prove difficult, though.

He reminded himself that he was only guessing about the poste restante, but it didn't feel like guessing: He knew it was there. Once on a train, he decided on another change of plan. The U-bahn might be anonymous, but he would need somewhere to read whatever it was McKinley had accumulated. He couldn't take it to his own flat or Effis, and he had no desire to sit in a park or on a train with a pile of stolen documents on his knee. In the car, on the other hand, he could drive himself somewhere secluded and take his time. This sounded like such a good idea that he wondered why it hadn't occurred to him earlier. How many other obvious possibilities had he failed to notice?

Frau Heidegger was still out. He backed the Hanomag out of the courtyard, accelerated down Neuenburgerstrasse, and almost broad-sided a tram turning into Lindenstrasse. Calm down, he told himself.

On the way to the old town his head raced with ideas for foiling discovery and capture. If he checked who was on normal duty in the poste restante, and then waited till whoever it was went to lunch, hed probably be seen by someone less liable to go over the passport with a magnifying glass. Or would the lunchtime stand-in, being less used to the work, be more careful? A crowded post office would give more people the chance of remembering him; an empty one would make him stand out.

He parked the car on Heiligegeiststrasse, a hundred meters north of the block which housed the huge post office, and walked down to the main entrance. The poste restante section was on the second floor, a large high-ceilinged room with high windows. A line of upright chairs for waiting customers faced the two service windows. There was a customer at one window, but the other was free.

Heart thumping, Russell walked up to the available clerk and placed McKinleys passport on the counter. Anything for McKinley? he asked, in a voice which seemed to belong to someone else.

The clerk took the briefest of looks at the passport and disappeared without a word. Would he come back with a sheaf of papers or a squad of Gestapo? Russell wondered. He stole a look at the other customer, a woman in her thirties who was just signing for a parcel. The clerk serving her was now looking at Russell. He looked away, and wondered whether to put the passport back in his pocket. He could feel the man still looking at him. Dont do anything memorable, he told himself.

His own clerk returned, more quickly than Russell had dared to hope, with a thick manila envelope. Letting this drop onto the counter with a thump, he reached underneath for a form. A couple of indecipherable squiggles later he pushed the form across for signing. Russell searched in vain for his pen, accepted the one offered with a superior smirk, and almost signed his own name. A cold sweat seemed to wash across his chest and down his legs as he scrawled an approximation of McKinleys signature, accepted his copy of the receipt, and picked up the proffered envelope. The five yards to the door seemed endless, the stairs an echo chamber of Wagnerian proportions.

On the street outside a tram disgorging passengers was holding up traffic. Fighting the ludicrous temptation to run, Russell walked back toward his car, scanning the opposite pavement for possible watchers. As he waited to cross Kaiser Wilhelmstrasse he snuck a look back. There was no one there. If there had been, he told himself, theyd have seen the envelope and arrested him by now. Hed gotten away with it. For the moment, anyway.

Much to his relief the car started without protest. He turned onto Konigstrasse and headed up toward the railway bridge, chafing at the slow pace of the tram in front of him. As he rounded Alexanderplatz he decided, at the last moment, that Landsbergerstrasse offered the quickest route out of the city, and almost collided with another car. Away to his right the gray bulk of the Alex leered down at him.

He slowed the Hanomag and concentrated on driving the three kilometers to the citys ragged edge without getting arrested. As he swung round Buschingplatz he thought for one dreadful moment that a traffic cop was flagging him down, and the beads of sweat were still clinging to his brow as he drove past the huge state hospital on the southern edge of the Friedrichshain. Another kilometer and he could smell the vast complex of cattle markets and slaughterhouses that sprawled alongside the Ringbahn. As he reached the top of the bridge which carried the road over the railway by Landsbergerallee Station he had a brief panoramic view of the countryside to the east: two small hills rising, almost apologetically, from the vast expanse of the Prussian plains.

Earlier, mentally searching for a safe place to study McKinleys material, he had recalled a picnic with Thomass family on one of those hills. As he remembered it, a road ran south from Marzahn between them, and a winding access road led up to a picnic area on the one nearest the city.

His memory served him well. The road wound up through dark dripping trees to the bald brow of the hill, where picnic tables had been arranged to take advantage of the view across the city. There was no one there. Russell parked in the allotted space behind the tables and gazed out through the windshield at the distant city. The nearest clump of large buildings, which Thomas had pointed out on their previous visit, made up Berlins principal home for the mentally ill, the Herzberge Asylum. Which was highly apt, given the probable content of the reading matter on the seat beside him.

He reached for the envelope and carefully prized it open. There were about fifty sheets of paper in all, a few in McKinleys writing, most of them typed or printed. Russell skipped through them in search of Theresa Jurissens letter. He found it at the bottom of the pile, with a datethe date it had been writtenscrawled in pencil across the right-hand corner. Going back through the other papers, Russell found other dates: McKinley had arranged his story in chronological order.

The first document was a 1934 article from the Munchner Zeitung, a journalists eyewitness report of life in an asylum entitled Alive Yet Dead. McKinley had underlined two sentencesThey vegetate in twilight throughout the day and night. What do time and space mean to them?and added in the margin: or life and death? The second document was a story from the SS journal Das Schwarze Korps, about a farmer who had shot his mentally handicapped son and the sensitive judges who had all but let him off. A readers letter from the same magazine begged the authorities to find a legal and humane way of killing defective infants.

Russell skipped through several other letters in the same vein and numerous pages of unattributed statistics which demonstrated a marked decline in the space and resources devoted to each mental patient since 1933. So far, so predictable, Russell thought.

The next item was an article by Karl Knab in the Psychiatrisch-Neurologische Wochenschrift journal. Again, McKinley had underlined one passage: We have before us in these asylums, spiritual ruins, whose number is not insignificant, notwithstanding all our therapeutic endeavours, in addition to idiots on the lowest level, patient material which, as simply cost-occasioning ballast, should be eradicated by being killed in a painless fashion, which is justifiable in terms of the self-preservatory finance policy of a nation fighting for its existence, without shaking the cultural foundations of its cultural values. This was chilling enough, Russell thought, but who was Knab? He was obviously far from a lone voice in the wilderness, but that didn't make him a spokesman for the government.

There was a lot of stuff on the Knauer boy, but most of it was in McKinleys writingguesses, suppositions, holes to be filled. It was the last few sheets of paper which really caught Russells attention. Most were from a memorandum by Doctor Theodore Morell, best known to the foreign press community as Hitlers Quack. He had been given the task of gathering together everything written in favor of euthanasia over the last fifty years, with a view to formulating a draft law on The Destruction of Life Unworthy of Life. Those eligible included anyone suffering from mental or physical malformation, anyone requiring long-term care, anyone arousing horror in other people or anyone situated on the lowest animal level. The Nazis qualified on at least two counts, Russell thought.

As Theresa Jurissen had said, the main area of controversy among those who favored such a law was the openness or not of its administration. In this memorandum Morell concluded that secrecy was best: that parents would be much happier thinking that their child had simply succumbed to some illness or other. He hadn't yet decided whether doctors should be involved in the actual killing of their patients, but he insisted on their compulsory registration of all congenitally ill patients.

The final item was the letter, and Russell now realized why McKinley had been so excited by it. Theodore Morell might be Hitlers doctor, but he was a private citizen, entitled to his own ideas, no matter how psychopathic they might be. The letter, though, was something else. It confirmed the gist of Morells memorandum under the imprint of the KdF, the Kanzlei des Fuhrers. It tied Hitler to child-killing.

Russell shook the papers together and stuffed them back into the envelope. After sliding the whole package under the passenger seat he got out of the car and walked across the damp grass to the lip of the slope. A small convoy of military trucks was driving east down Landsbergerallee, a solitary car headed in the opposite direction. A dense layer of cloud still hung over the city.

McKinley had had his story, Russell thought. The sort of story that young journalists dreamed ofone that saved lives and made you famous.

But what was he going to do with it? Get rid of it, was the obvious answer. Along with the passport.

He watched a distant Ringbahn train slide slowly out of sight near the slaughterhouses. It was the obvious answer, but he knew he couldn't do it. He owed it to McKinley, and probably to himself. He owed it to all those thousands of childrentens of thousands, for all he knewthat a creep like Morell found unworthy of life.

McKinley had probably thought his story would save them all. Russell had rather less faith in the power of the press, but having everything out in the open would at least make it more difficult for the bastards.

How could he get the stuff to McKinleys paper? Not by post, that was for sure. Hed have to carry it out himself, which would hardly be a barrel of laughs.

How had McKinley planned to file the story? Or had he been just as stuck? That would explain why hed put it in the poste restante.

Which had been a good idea. And still was, Russell decided. Under his own name this time. The passport would have to go.

But how could he get rid of it? Immolation seemed the obvious answer, but flames tended to be conspicuous, particularly on a day as dark as this one, and in any case he had no means of creating any. He could burn the damn thing in his apartment, but felt reluctant to carry it a moment longer than he had to, and particularly reluctant to bring it home, where the Gestapo might be waiting on his sofa. Somewhere on the open road, he thought, with a good view in either direction. Back in the car, he slid it under his seat. Driving back down the hill he felt a strange urge to sing. Hysteria, he told himself.

At the post office in Marzahn he bought a book of matches andsince it seemed less suspiciousa packet of cigarettes to go with them. He also purchased a large envelope which he addressed to himself, care of the poste restante in Potsdam; he had no ambition to revisit the counter at Heiligegeiststrasse under a different name. He then used the public telephone to call Effi.

Is everything all right? she asked anxiously.

Too wonderful to talk about, he said pointedly. What are you doing?

Trying to memorize my part.

Can you meet me in the Zoo Station buffet? he asked. At four oclock, he added, checking his watch.

Ill be there.

Once back on the Landsberg road Russell started looking for a suitable place to burn the passport. A mile or so short of the Ringbahn bridge he found a wide entranceway to a farm track and pulled over. Retrieving the passport from under his seat he ripped it into separate pages and set light to the first one, holding it down between his knees until it was too hot to hold, then shifting it to and fro with his feet until all that remained were black flakes. With his other hand he wafted the resulting smoke out through the open windows.

In the time it took him to burn the remaining five sheets only two trucks went by, and their drivers showed no interest in Russells slightly smoking car. He gathered the blackened remains in his handkerchief, which he knotted and placed in his pocket before resuming his journey. Twenty minutes later he consigned both handkerchief and contents to a lonely stretch of the scum-covered Luisenstrassekanal. The final remains of Zembskis handiwork disappeared with a dull plop, leaving Russell with several burned fingers to remember them by.

It was almost 3:15. He went back to the Hanomag, and started working his way west toward Potsdamerplatz. The traffic around the southern edge of the Tiergarten was busy for the time of day, but he reached his destinationa street halfway between Effis flat and Zoo Stationwith five minutes to spare. He parked facing the direction she would come from, assuming she hadn't picked this day of all days to change her usual route.

Ten minutes later she came into view, walking quickly in her high heels, a few wisps of dark hair floating free of the scarf and hat.

She didn't see him, and jumped with surprise when he told her to get in. You said Zoo Station, she said angrily, as he moved the car down the road. As far as he could see no one had been following her.

That was for the benefit of anyone listening. Ive got something to show you. In private.

Why didn't you just come to the flat then?

Because, he explained patiently, anyone caught with this lot in their flat is likely to end up like McKinley.

Oh. She was taken aback, but only for a second. So where are we going?

Along the canal, I thought, opposite the Zoo restaurant. Theres always people parked there.

Mostly kissing and cuddling.

We can always pretend.

Once they were there, Russell reached down for the manila envelope under Effis seat. Even with the assistance of the nearby streetlamp, reading was difficult, but he didn't dare turn on the cars internal light. Look, he said, you dont need to read all of this. These last few pageshe handed her Morells memo and Theresas lettershould be enough to convince Zarah.

You want me to show them to her?

God, no. I want you to tell her what they are and whats in them. Shell believe you. If you tell her, she wont need to see them.

Okay. Effi started to read, her face increasingly frozen in an expression of utter disgust. Russell stared out of the window, watching the last of the daylight fade. A coal barge puttered by on the canal, the owners dog howling his response to an unknown animals cry emanating from deep within the zoo. My country, Effi murmured, as she moved on to the next sheet.

She read the whole memorandum, and then the KdF letter. You were right, she said. If shed kept that appointment Lothar would be on a list by now.

And it wont be an easy list to get off, Russell said.

They sat there in silence as another barge went by. In the Zoo restaurant across the water someone was stacking dishes.

What can we do? Effi wanted to know.

I dont know. But you can tell Zarah youre convinced. And tell her Im destroying the papers.

Youre not going to?

I dont know. Not yet, anyway. Im going to put them somewhere safe for a while.

She gave him a searching look, as if she wanted to reassure herself of who he was. All those children, she said.

Achievements of the Third Reich

AFTER THE EXCITEMENT OF the previous day, Russell spent Tuesday trying to work. The third article for Pravda was due by the end of the week, and one of the Fleet Street heavies wanted a second Ordinary Germans piece before committing itself to a series. It was write-by-numbers stuff, but he kept finding his mind drifting away from the subjects at hand, usually in the direction of potential threats to his liberty.

If the SD had the same bright idea about the poste restante that he had had, and checked through the records, theyd discover that McKinley had collected something nine days after his death. Everyone knew that Himmler was prone to strange flights of dark fantasyrumor had it that SS agents were searching for the elixir of eternal life in Tibetbut hed probably draw the line at mail-collecting ghosts. A light bulb would go on over his head, complete with the thought-bubble it must have been someone else! And no prizes for guessing who he and his minions would think of first.

Thered be no point in denying ittheyd just drag him down to Heiligegeist and have him identified. Hed have to blame Eleanor McKinley, who was now beyond their reach. Shed given him the passport, hed say. Asked him to pick up the papers, and hed sent them on to her. Simple as that. What was in the envelope? He hadn't opened it. A different photograph in the passport? The clerk must have imagined it. The passport? Hed sent that on as well.

It was about as convincing as one of Goerings economic forecasts. And if some bright spark of Heydrichs decided to find out if there was anything under his name in any German poste restante, hed be left without a prayer. Hed just have to hope that no one in the SD had read Getaway or The High Fence, which was at least possibleThe Saint seemed far too irreverent a hero for Nazis.

Such hopes notwithstanding, every sound of a car in the street, every ring of footsteps in the courtyard below, produced a momentary sinking of the stomach, and later that evening, over at Effis, a sharp rat-a-tat on the door almost sent it through the floor. When Effi ushered a man in uniform through the door it took him several seconds to realize it was only Zarahs husband.

Jens Biesinger worked for some government inspectorate or otherRussell had never bothered to find out exactly whichand was on his way home. He accepted Effis offer of coffee, shook Russells hand, and took a seat, boots and belt creaking as he leaned back with a tired sigh. How is your work? he asked Russell politely.

Russell made appropriate noises, his mind working furiously on what the man could want. His only real conversation with Jens, almost three years earlier, had escalated into a serious argument almost immediately, and Effi of all people had been forced to adopt the role of peacemaker. They had rarely been in the same room since, and on those occasions had treated each other with the sort of icy politeness reserved for loathed relations.

Jens waited until Effi was with them before he stated the object of his visit. John, he began, I have a large favor I would like to ask you. Zarah wishes to take Lothar to England, for reasons that you are aware of. I cannot go with her, for reasons that Im sure you will understand. And Effi starts work on her film on Monday. Zarah doesnt want to wait, so . . . would you escort them? Someone has to, and as an English-speakerand, of course, someone who is almost part of the familyyou would be the ideal person. Naturally, I would pay all the expensesthe flights, the hotel, whatever else is necessary.

Recovering from his surprise, Russell considered the idea. And had another.

Id feel happier if you went with them, John, Effi interjected.

When are you thinking of? Russell asked Jens. Were going away this weekend, and Ill be in Hamburg on Monday and Tuesdaythe Bismarck launch. So it couldn't be until the middle of next weekThursday perhaps?

That sounds reasonable.

Russell brought up his other idea. Id like to take my son too. Ill pay for him, naturally, but if you could arrange the trip for four. . . . Ill need his mothers agreement, of course, he added.

Jens smiled. An excellent plan. It will look more . . . natural. Ill arrange things for four. If your son cant go we can always amend the reservations. He placed the cup of coffee on the side table and got up, looking pleased with himself. Zarah will be relieved, he said. She was not looking forward to making such a journey alone.

Im sure shed have managed, Effi said with a slight edge, but this will be better.

This is my number at the ministry, Jens said, handing Russell a card.

This is mine at home, Russell replied, tearing a sheet from his notebook and penciling out the Neuenburgerstrasse number. England with Paul, he thought, and he was still reveling in the notion when Effi returned from seeing Jens out.

Youre not to fall in love with my sister, she told him.

HE PHONED ILSE FROM Effis flat early the next morning and arranged to have coffee at a cafe in Halensee which they knew from their earlier life together. Russell wanted to ask her in person rather than over the phone, and she sounded more than willingeager, in factto get out of the house for a couple of hours.

The cafe looked more run-down than Russell remembered it, a consequence, perhaps, of the fact that a large proportion of its former clientele had been Jewish. Ilse was already there, looking less severe than usual. Her shoulder-length blonde hair, which over the last few years had invariably been tied back in a knot, hung loose, softening the stretched lines of her face. She still seemed painfully thin to Russell, and her blue eyes never seemed to soften as once they had, but she seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

He told her what he wanted, at worst expecting a flat refusal, at best a painful argument.

I think its a wonderful idea, she said. Well have to inform the school of course, and his Jungvolk leader, but I dont see how either of them could object. Itll be an educational experience, wont it?

I hope so. Matthias wont object?

Why should he?

No reason at all. Well, thats good. I expected more of an argument, he admitted.

Why, for heavens sake? When have I ever tried to come between you and Paul?

He smiled. You havent.

She smiled back. You must be getting lots of work, she said. Pauls very impressed with the car.

They talked about Paul, his interests and anxieties, for more than half an hour. Afterward, driving back across the city for his Wednesday appointment at the Wiesners, Russell found it hard to remember a warmer conversation with his ex-wife. He was still bathing in its glow when he rapped on the door of the apartment in Friedrichshain.

There was no answer for several moments, then an anxious voice called out, Who is it?

Its John Russell, he shouted back.

The door opened to reveal a haggard-looking Frau Wiesner. Im sorry, she said, looking down the stairs behind him. Come in, please.

There was no sign of the girls.

Im afraid there will be no lesson today, she said. And perhaps no more lessons for a while. My husband has been arrested. They have taken him to a camp. Sachsenhausen, we think. A friend of a friend saw him there.

When? When was he arrested? What was he arrested for?

They came here on Monday. The middle of the night, so it was really Tuesday. She sat down abruptly, as if she needed all her strength to tell the story. They kept hitting him, she almost whispered, a solitary tear running down her right cheek. He wasnt resisting. He kept saying, Im coming with youwhy are you hitting me? They just laughed, called him names. Called the children names. I only thank God that Albert wasnt here when they came.

Russell sat down on the settee beside her and put an arm around her shoulder. Frau. . . . he started to say. I should know your name by now.

Eva.

Did they give a reason for his arrest?

Not to me. Our friends are trying to find out whether there was a reason . . . not a real reason, of course . . . but surely they have to say something, write something down in their record books. She looked at him almost imploringly, as if their having a reason would make a difference.

Where are the girls? he asked. And wheres Albert?

The girls are with friends down the road. They love your lessons, but today . . . they couldn't. . . .

Of course not.

And Albert. . . . He came back on Tuesday morning, heard what had happened, and ran straight out again. I havent seen him since.

The Gestapo havent been back?

No. If they came back, I could ask them about Felix. I dont know what to do. Some friends say kick up a fuss, or youll never be told anything. Others say that if you do it makes matters worse, and that Felix will be released eventually, like Albert was. And I wouldn't know where to go if I wanted to make a fuss. The Alex? If I go there and demand to know where Felix is and why theyve arrested him they might arrest me, and then wholl look after Albert and the girls?

That wouldn't be a good idea, Russell agreed. He wondered what would be.

Have the Conways gone? she asked.

Im afraid they have. Theyd been at sea for at least 36 hours. But I can try talking to someone at the Embassy. I doubt whether theyll be able to do anything, but its worth a try.

Theyre not allowed visitors in Sachsenhausen, she said. We found that out when Albert was there. Not family or friends that is. But perhaps theyd let you visit him. You could say he owed you money for the girls lessons, and you need his signature for somethinga check on a foreign bank account or something like that.

You have a foreign bank account?

No, of course not, but they think we havethey think we all have them.

Russell winced. What could he do? The embassy certainly, but how much would a Jewish doctors kindness to a now-departed colleague count for in the grand scheme of things? Not much. He could go to the Alexor, more worryingly, the Gestapo HQ on Prinz Albrechtstrasseand make some polite inquiries. Not as a journalist, of course. In fact, Eva Wiesners suggestion was a good one. He could say that Wiesner owed him for the girls lessons, and that the Jewish swine wasnt going to get out of it by running away to a Kz. That should give the bastards a good laugh.

And then there was Jens, who now owed him a favor. A last resort, Russell decided. That was one favor he wanted to keep in reserve.

Ill make some inquiries, he told her. Tactfully. I wont stir up any resentment. Ill try and find out where he is and why hes been arrested. And if theres any chance of arranging a visit.

She gave him a despairing look. Why is it that you can see how wrong this is, and so many people cant?

I like to think most people can, he said. And that theyre just too afraid to speak up. But lately. . . . He spread his hands. If I find out anything definite Ill be back to let you know. Otherwise Ill come on Friday at the usual time.

Thank you, Mr. Russell. You are a real friend. Another solitary tear crawled down her cheek, as if her body were conserving the supply for future contingencies.

As he walked back to the car Russell found himself hoping he was the friend she thought he was. He had considered giving her his address, but there was no way he could keep one or more of the Wiesners in his apartment. If Frau Heidegger didn't report it, one of his neighbors would.

Driving down Neue Konigstrasse he decided on visiting the Gestapo first. Another voluntary encounter with the Nazi authorities, he told himself, would weaken any suspicions they might hold with regard to McKinleys missing papers. And if they handed out prizes for wishful thinking. . . .

He parked behind a shiny, swastika-embossed limousine on Prinz Albrecht Strasse, and approached the impressive portals of the State Police HQ. Taking a deep breath, he walked up the steps and in through the revolving door. As usual, the Fuhrer was up there in his frame, beady eyes tracking Russell round the room like some scary inversion of the Mona Lisayou knew what he was thinking.

Russell explained his plight to the receptionist: the Jew, the debt, the joke about Wiesner running away to a Kz. She laughed, and directed him to the appropriate office for Ongoing Cases. Another receptionist, another laugh, and he was on his way to Completed Cases, which sounded bad for Felix Wiesner.

The officer in charge was in a good mood. It took him less than a minute to find the file on Felix Wiesner, and less than that to read it. Youre out of luck, he said. The kikes in Sachsenhausen, and he wont be back. Your moneys gone.

What did the bastard do? Russell asked.

Gave a German girl an abortion. Thats twenty-five years, if he lasts that long.

Russell felt his heart sink, but managed not to show it. Win some, lose some, he said. Thanks for your help.

He made his way back to the entrance, half-expecting to hear muffled screams from the rumored torture chambers in the basement, but, as in the SD HQ around the corner, there was only the whisper of typewriters to break the silence.

He left the car where it was, walked up Wilhelmstrasse to the British Embassy, and sat beneath the picture of the latest Kingthe third in two yearswhile he waited for Martin Unsworth to see him. It proved a waste of time. Unsworth had heard about the Wiesners from Doug Conway, but felt no dramatic compulsion to risk his career on their behalf. He pointed out, reasonably enough, that a British Embassy could hardly involve itself in the domestic criminal matters of a host nation. He added, just as reasonably, that the host nation would, at best, ignore any request in such a matter and, at worst, make use of it for propaganda purposes. Russell hid his fury, elicited a promise from Unsworth to investigate the Wiesners visa applications, and then thumped the wooden banister so hard on his way down that he feared for a moment hed broken his hand. Walking back down Wilhelmstrasse, surrounded by billowing swastikas, he simmered with useless rage.

Back at Effishe seemed to be living there at the momenthe told her what had happened. She advised him to ring JensTheres a human being in there somewhere, she said. Though you have to dig a bit.

Why not, he thought. Cash in the favor owed while it was still fresh in the memory.

After talking his way past two secretaries, Russell was finally put through to Jens. I havent managed to arrange anything yet, Zarahs husband said, trying and failing to conceal his irritation.

This is about something else, Russell told him. I need a favor from you this time.

Something between a groan and a grunt greeted this statement.

Russell plowed on. Someone I know has been arrested and taken to a camp. A Jew.

I

Please, hear me out. This is nothing to do with politicsits a matter of honor. This mans a doctor and back in 1933, before the Jews were forbidden to practice, he saved the life of my friends child. He went on to explain who Conway was, how hed involved Russell in teaching Wiesners daughters, and his current unreachability in mid-Atlantic. This is not about helping the Jews; its about repaying a debt.

I understand what you Jens began, his tone now mixing sympathy with the reluctance.

I dont want you to do anything, Russell insisted, somewhat disingenuously. I just need to know the details of why hes been arrested, and what the chances of a visit are. A visit from me, I meanI know theres no chance of a family visit. At the moment, his wife and children are in limbo. They cant do anything but wait. I think the wife needs his blessing to do whats best for the children.

There was a moments silence at the other end. Ill find out what I can, Jens said eventually.

Thank you, Russell said. He put down the phone. Ill drive over to the Wiesners and tell them, he told Effi.

She went with him. Frau Wiesner seemed calmer, or perhaps just more resigned. When Russell reported the Gestapo claim about an abortion she seemed torn between derision and despair. Felix would neverneverdo anything so foolish, she said. As for Albert, hed returned the day before, but had soon gone out again. I cant lock him in, she said. Hes a man now.

Initially, she looked somewhat askance at Russells glamorous-looking companion, but Effis obvious empathy quickly won her over. The girls were there, and both insisted on getting the visiting film stars autograph. Marthe produced her movie scrapbook and the three of them took over the sofa. Watching their dark heads together, poring over the neatly arranged photographs of German and Hollywood stars, Russell found he was fighting back tears.

HE SPENT THURSDAY IMMERSED in work, his apartment door open to catch the sound of the ground floor telephone. It was late afternoon when Frau Heidegger shouted up the stairs that the call was for him.

I have the tickets and reservations, Jens told him. We were lucky: There were four seats left on next Thursdays London flight. It leaves at two, but you should be there half an hour earlier. The return flight is on Sunday, at eleven. I have booked two rooms at the Savoy Hotelhave you heard of it?on a road called Strand. And a car to take you from the airport in Croydon to the hotel and back again. And of course the appointment. I hope that covers everything.

Russell almost asked where the appointment was, but presumed Jens was being cagey for a reason. It sounds, perfect, he said. The Savoy! he thought.

Good. Now, this other business. He paused for a moment and Russell could imagine him checking that his office door was shut. Your friends Jewish doctor has been arrested for conducting an abortion on a girl of seventeen. Her name is Erna Marohn, from a good German family. Her father is an officer in the Kriegsmarine.

Who made the complaint?

The mother. The father is away at sea. There is no doubt the girl had an abortion: She was examined by a police doctor. And there is little doubt that Wiesner carried it out. She was seen entering the clinic he runs in Friedrichshain for other Jews.

That sounds bad.

It is. A German doctor caught performing an abortion can expect a lengthy term of imprisonment. A Jewish doctor caught performing one on a German girl, well. . . .

Yes.

But there is some good news. I have managed to arrange a pass for you to visit him in Sachsenhausen. Next Wednesday, the day before you go to England. A courier will bring the pass to your house. You should be at the camp by 11:00 AM. But you will not be able to take anything in or out. And you must not report anything you see or hear. They are letting you in as a favor to me, but not as a journalist. You do understand that?

Absolutely.

If anything appears in print, in England or anywhere else, describing the conditions there, they will assume that you have broken your word, and, at the very least, you will lose your journalistic accreditation. I was asked to tell you this.

I understand. And thank you, Jens.

You are welcome.

FRIDAY DAWNED CLEAR AND COLD. Russell packed a bag for the weekend, and headed toward Friedrichshain, stopping for a newspaper and coffee at Alexanderplatz Station. The only interesting piece of news concerned a train: In Westphalia a 37-ton excavating machine had run amok on a night freight. Whatever it was that pin-ioned the steel arms in an upright position had come undone, dropping them into their working position over one side of the wagon. A miles worth of telegraph poles, signals, and huts had been demolished, and a station reduced to rubble when the canopy supports were swept away. The train had only been stopped when a witness phoned ahead to a signal box. The guard hadn't noticed anything was amiss. Hitlers Germany in microcosmflailing away in the darkness, ruins piling up behind.

At the apartment in Friedrichshain he told Frau Wiesner what Jens had told him. I dont believe it, she said. Felix will tell you what really happened. He gave the two girls a lesson, and promised to come by on the following Tuesday when he returned from Hamburg. Driving back across town to pick up Effi, he wondered how to dispel the sense of gloom that seemed to be enveloping him.

He needn't have worried. It was about 200 kilometers to Stralsund, and by the time they reached it Effis defiant mood of romantic adventure had overtaken him. After crossing the narrow sound on the steam ferry, they drove the last 40 kilometers to Sassnitz in gathering darkness. On one forest stretch their headlights caught two deer hurrying each other across the road.

As Russell had expected the small resort was virtually empty, and they had their pick of those hotels not closed for the winter break. They chose the Am Meer, right on the promenade, and were given a room with views across the darkened Baltic. With the dining room closed for refurbishing, dinner was served in the lounge, in front of a dancing fire, by a girl of about fourteen. Happy and full, they walked out across the promenade and listened to the comforting caress of the tide. Above the sea the sky was bursting with stars, and over the hills behind them a thin crescent moon was rising. As they clung together for warmth, and kissed on the stony beach, it crossed Russells mind that this was as perfect as life ever got.

Back in their room they discovered, much to Effis amusement, that the bed squeaked and creaked at their slightest movement, and midway through making love she got the giggles so badly that they had to take a break before resuming.

The good weather continued, sunlight advancing across their bed the following morning. After wrapping up warmly they set out for the famous Stubbenkammer cliffs, a ten-kilometer drive through the Stubnitz beech woods. After gingerly looking over the 140-meter precipice, Russell gave Effi her first driving lesson on the large expanse of tarmac laid out for the summer sightseeing coaches. Clanking the gears atrociously, she jerked her way through several circuits before pronouncing: This is easy!

They had lunch in a restaurant they had noticed on the drive up, a sprawling wooden building with intricately carved facades which nestled among the beeches, and then spent a couple of hours walking along the well-tended paths of the sun-dappled forest. The only other signs of human life were various fragments of a Hitler Youth group on a weekend trip from Rostock: groups of two or three boys, their eyes flickering from compass to path and back again. Their leaders, who brought up the rear, claimed to have seen a bear, but the beer on their breath suggested otherwise.

It got dark too early, but there was always the creaking bed. Afterward, they drank, ate, and sat in front of the same fire, hardly speaking, and not needing to. The bed was uncomfortable as well as noisy, but Russell slept better than he had for weeks.

On their final morning he drove them northwest toward the long sandspit which connected the Jasmund and Wittow peninsulas. Seeing that the road along the spit was empty he relinquished the wheel to Effi, and she drove the next twenty kilometers, far too fast, with a huge smile lighting up her face. At the end of the spit they took to the sandy beach, walking a kilometer or more and back again, watching the wind raising whitecaps on the water and the clouds scudding eastward across the blue-gray Baltic. No cars went by, no walkers. No ships appeared on the horizon. The earth was theirs.

But not for long. Effis train back to Berlin left Stralsund at three, and as they made their way back across the island the sunshine became increasingly intermittent, finally disappearing beneath a looming wall of cloud. The short ferry ride was choppy, the railway carriages clanking ominously in their chains, and rain was falling by the time they reached the Hauptbahnhof.

This is really sad, Effi said. Youll only be back for a day or so, and youll be gone again. And Ive no idea what the filming schedules going to be.

Its only a couple of weeks, he told her.

Of course, she smiled, but he knew hed said the wrong thing.

Lets do this again, he said. Soon.

Please. A whistle sounded, and she leaned out of the window to kiss him. Are you sure we have this the right way round? she asked. You should be on a train to Hamburg and I should be driving back to Berlin.

Sometimes other people want to use the road, he told her as the train jerked into motion.

She made a face, and blew him a kiss. He stood there watching the trains red taillight recede into the distance, then strode back down the platform and out of the station. The car seemed colder without her.

THE ROAD ACROSS THE NORTHERN heathlands was mostly empty, the rain persistent and occasionally heavy. He drove west at a steady fifty kilometers an hour, half-hypnotized by the steady slap of the windshield wiper as his eyes struggled to pierce the gloom ahead. Darkness had fallen by the time he left Lubeck, and on the last stretch across southern Holstein a stream of trucks did their best to blind him with their headlights. The dimly lit suburbs of eastern Hamburg came as a blessed relief.

He had already booked himself a room with bath at the Kronprinz Hotel on Kirchenallee. This was one of the Hamburg establishments favored by journalists on an expense account. It was expensive, but not that expensivethe journalists concerned could always produce proof that other hotels were more so. The receptionist confirmed what he already expected, that he was a day ahead of the crowd. With the launch set for lunchtime Tuesday, most of the press would be arriving late on Monday.

After examining his room and eating dinner in the hotel restaurant he went out. The Kronprinz was just across from the main station, which lay at the eastern end of the old town. Russell walked through the station and down Monckebergstrasse toward the looming tower of the Rathaus, turning right before he reached it, and headed for the Alsterbassin, the large square of water which lay at the citys heart. He had visited Hamburg many times over the last fifteen years, and walking the mile-long, tree-lined perimeter of the Alsterbassin had become almost a ritual.

Despite the damp cold, many others were doing the same. On summer days the water was usually busy with rowing, sailing, and steamboats, but on this winter evening the seagulls had it to themselves. Russell stopped for a beer at a cafe on one of the quays, and thought about Effi. She was wonderful with children, but he couldn't remember her ever saying she wanted them. Did he want another one, with her? Despite the fact that the world was about to collapse around them, he rather thought he did. Far across the water a seagull squawked in derision.

He slept well, ate a large breakfast, and drove across the city to St. Pauli, the suburb between Hamburg and Altona which housed a high proportion of the citys seafaring population. His British agent had particularly liked the idea of including sailors among his Ordinary Germans, and this was an obvious place to find them. Interviewing men past active service seemed like a good way of deflecting any suspicion that he was collecting intelligence rather than human interest news, and his first port of call was one of several homes for retired seamen close to the waterfront.

Over the next couple of hours he talked to several delightful pensioners, all eager to share the sources of alcohol concealed on their persons. They had all fought in the war: one, a rare survivor from the Battle of the Falklands; two others, participants in the Battle of Jutland. Both of the latter offered broad hints that theyd taken part in the High Seas Mutiny of 1918, but they clearly hadn't suffered for it, either then or under the Nazis. Their retirement home seemed comfortable, efficient, and friendly.

All the residents he talked to admired the new ships, but none were impressed by the current standards of gunnery. Not, they admitted, that this mattered that much. Ships like the new Bismarck looked goodand were goodbut the money and labor would be better spent on U-Boats. That, unfortunately, was where future naval wars would be won or lost.

Russell had less success with working sailors. Trawling the waterfront bars he found some amiable seamen, but rather more who treated his questions with suspicion verging on hostility. Some were clearly supporters of the regime. One young officer, pacified by a brief perusal of Sturmbannfuhrer Kleists letter, was particularly optimistic about Germanys naval prospects: He saw the Bismarck, in particular, as symbolic of a burgeoning renaissance. In five years time, he promised, well have the British hiding in their harbors. Others, Russell guessed, would once have been open opponents of the regime Hamburg, after all, had been a KPD stronghold, and a key center of the Cominterns maritime organization. As far as these men were concerned he was, at best, a nadve English journalist, at worst, an agent provocateur.

That afternoon Russell spent a few marks on the circular tour of Hamburg harbor, an hour and a half of channels, shipyards, quays, and towering cranes in dizzying profusion. Colored bunting was going up everywhere, and the Blohm and Voss slipway, which housed the future Bismarck, was a ferocious hive of activity as last-minute preparations were made for the launching ceremony. The ship itself was disappointing. Still lacking a superstructure, it looked more like a gigantic canoe than the future of naval warfare. The overall impression Russell carried back to the hotel, however, was of power and energy, of a nation with a long and lengthening reach.

He ate dinner at a small restaurant on the Jungfernstieg which hed been to beforethe oysters were as good as he rememberedand made his way back across town to the Klosterburg, the beer restaurant near his hotel where journalists usually gathered. Hal Manning and Jack Slaney were sitting at the bar, staring across the room at a particularly boisterous table of SA men. One man, beer slopping from a raised glass, was outlining what hed do to Marlene Dietrich if she ever dared set foot in Germany again. His proposal made up in violence what it lacked in imagination.

Russell hoisted himself onto the vacant stool next to Slaneys and bought a round of drinks.

Shes making a film with Jimmy Stewart at the moment, Slaney said. And her characters called Frenchie. I guess that shows which side shes on. He carried on staring at the SA table, whisky chaser poised in his hand. We should think up a new collective noun for these peopleyou know, like a gaggle of geese. A crassness of stormtroopers. No, thats much too kind. He threw his head back and tipped in the chaser.

A void, Manning suggested.

Too intellectual.

A deposit, Russell offered.

Mmm, not bad. A passing, perhaps. He reached for his beer. If only they would, he added sourly.

AT 11:00 THE NEXT MORNING, two buses organized by the Ministry of Propaganda arrived at the forecourt of the Reichshof, just up the road from the Kronprinz, to collect the assembled foreign press corps. Well be hanging around for hours, Slaney complained, as their bus headed south toward a bridge across the Norder Elbe, but he had reckoned without the traffic. There was only one road through the docks to the Blohm and Voss shipyard, and forward movement was soon reduced to a crawl.

Adolf wont like sitting in a jam, Russell said.

Hes coming by yacht, Manning told him. The Grille. A little journalistic detail for you.

Thanks, Dad.

They reached Slipway 9 at quarter past 12:00, and were dragooned, rather like schoolboys, into an enclosed area behind and slightly to the right of the ships towering bow. From here a flight of steps led up to a platform around ten meters square, and from that a smaller flight of steps to the actual launching platform, right up against the bow.

It wasnt Hitler weather, but at least it was dry, with a few desultory streaks of blue amid the gray. Several thousand people were present, lining the sides of the slipway and the area behind the platforms. Some shipyard workers were leaning over the ships rail, others perched precariously on the vast scaffolding of girders which rose above the ship. The larger platform was full of city and state officials, naval brass and Party hacks.

The first of several loud booms silenced the crowd.

Naval salutes, Slaney murmured. Unless theyre firing on Hitlers yacht.

No such luck, Russell said, indicating the man in question, who had just appeared at the bottom of the steps leading to the first platform. Bismarcks elderly granddaughter was climbing the steps ahead of him, and Hitler was visibly chafing at the delay, casting frequent glances at her progress as he talked to the portly Goering.

Once the Fuhrer, Dorothea von Bismarck, and the three service chiefs were all gathered on the higher platform, the former gave, by his own standards, a remarkably brief speech extolling the virtues of Germanys last Navyscuttled to spite the British in 1919and the Iron Chancellor himself, a true knight without fear or reproach. Bismarcks granddaughter then named the shipher querulous voice barely audible above the raucous shouts of the seagullsand broke the traditional bottle of champagne on the bow.

There was a sound of blocks being knocked away, and then . . . nothing. The ship failed to move. Hitler continued staring at the bow, like a cat facing a door which refused to open. One of the service chiefs looked around, as if he were asking what do we do now? A couple of seagulls hovered above the upper platform, as if intent on mischief.

If this goes on much longer, Slaney said, watching them, the Limeysll be running a book on who gets crapped on first.

There were more knocking noises from below, but still no sign of movement. Russell looked at his watchtwo minutes and counting. Hitler was still staring rigidly ahead, but what else could he do? It was hardly the place for a major tantrum.

One of the service chiefs leaned over to say something, and stiffened as if hed been slapped. And then a cheer burst forth from those lining the slipwayat last the ship was inching forward. The figures on the platform visibly relaxed, and as the stern slid into the river, Hitler, turning slightly to one side, smiled and brought a clenched fist sharply down on the railing.

They must have sent Goering down to give it a push, Slaney said. Anyway, he added, the good news is that it wont be ready for sea until 1941.

The Americans train wasnt until nine that evening, and he jumped at the offer of a lift back to Berlin in the car. There was little conversationSlaney slept for most of the journey, despite snorting himself awake on several occasionsand Russell was left to brood on his visit to Sachsenhausen the following day. At least hed have no trouble getting there. Come to think of it, that was what made car ownership in Germany specialthe concentration camps became so accessible.

After dropping Slaney off in the city center he drove up Neue Konigstrasse to see if the Wiesners had any news, or any last-minute instructions for his visit. There was none of the former, but Frau Wiesner had written a short letter to her husband.

They wont allow. . . . Russell started to say, but then relented. Ill try, he promised.

Please read it, she said, and if they take it then you can tell him whats in it.

Tell Daddy we love him, Ruth said, her head suddenly appearing around the door to the other room. The voice was brittle, the smile almost unbearable.

I will.

He drove back down Neue Konigstrasse, and stopped at the Alexanderplatz station to call Effi. The phone just rang, so he drove home to Neuenburgerstrasse. Frau Heideggers skat evening was in boisterous swing, but shed pinned a message for him beside the phone: Herr Russell! Your fiancee is working late tonight and early tomorrow morning. She finishes work at six tomorrow evening!

Russell went upstairs and ran a bath. The water was almost scalding, the pain of immersion almost pleasurable.

WEDNESDAY WAS A NICE day for any drive but this one. Berlin looked its best under a pale sun: The Spree sparkled, the windows glittered, the brightly colored trams shone in the graystone streets. While walkers huddled against the brisk cold wind, mouths and ears swathed in wool, the Hanomag proved remarkably snug for a ten-year-old car. As he drove up Brunnenstrasse toward Gesundbrunnen he thanked his lucky stars for the Zembski cousins. More than a thousand kilometers in twelve days, and no sign of a problem.

As he drove over the Ringbahn bridge he could see the Hertha flag flying from the Plumpe grandstand. This was the way he and Effi had come on the previous Friday, but the feeling on that day had been one of leaving Hitlers world behind. Today he was journeying into its heart, or the space where a heart might have been.

Sachsenhausen was only an hours drive from Berlin, a reasonable commute for the Gestapo interrogators who had previously plied their trade in the modern dungeons of Columbia Haus. According to Slaney, the new camp was a lot bigger, but neither he nor any other member of the foreign press corps had ever visited it. They had been shown around a sanitized Dachau in the early days, but that was it.

Ten kilometers short of his destination, Russell pulled into a small town garage for gas and used the stop to read Eva Wiesners letter to her husband. It was simple, touching, to the point. Heartbreaking.

Back on the Stralsund road, a neat sign announced the turnoff to Sachsenhausen Concentration Camp and Re-Educational Facility. Two or three kilometers of newly laid road led through a flat land of pastures and small woods to the gates of the camp. Parallel wire fences ran off to both left and right, one of which was clearly electrified. The gates themselves were flanked by a concrete watchtower and gatehouse.

Russell pulled up beside the latter as a man in Totenkopfverbande uniform emerged with palm raised and a submachine gun cradled in the other arm. Russell wound down the window and handed over his documents. The guard read through them twice, said wait here, and walked back inside the gatehouse. Russell heard him talking, presumably on the telephone, and a few moments later he reemerged with another guard. Get out, he said.

Russell obliged.

Raise your arms.

He did as he was told. As one guard checked his clothes and body for weapons, the other went over the car.

What is this? the first guard asked, taking the letter from Russells coat pocket.

Its letter for the man Ive come to see. From his wife.

Not permitted, the guard said, without apparent emotion. He crumpled the letter in his fist.

Russell opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it.

The cars clean, the other guard reported.

Turn left inside the gate, and report to the Kommandantura, the first guard said. Its the second building on the left. He handed back the documents and gestured to the guard who had now appeared inside the gates to open them. Russell thanked him with a smilewhich was not returnedand drove carefully through the now-opened gates, conscious that they would soon be closing behind him. Turning left, he could see, in a wide space some distance ahead, several hundred prisoners standing in formation. Most had bare arms and heads, and must have been freezing in the cold wind. Two Totenkopfverbande officers were ambling along the front rank, shouting something indecipherable. One had a muzzled Alsatian on a lead.

He stopped outside the two-storey concrete building which bore the signpost KOMMANDANTURA, took one last look at the apparent roll-call, and headed for the door. On either side of the entrance two large pots held the withered remains of what might have been geraniums.

Inside, a middle-aged Gestapo officer looked up from his desk, wordlessly extended a hand for Russells documentation, and gestured him to a chair. As the officer examined the pass and accompanying letter he repeatedly ran his right hand through his thinning hair, as if intent on wearing out what little remained. Picking up the phone with that hand, he switched to using the other on his head. You are needed here, he told someone, and hung up.

A minute later the someonea younger man with a remarkably unintelligent facearrived. Hauptscharfuhrer Grundel will take you to your meeting, the adjutant announced.

Russell stood up. This way, the Hauptscharfuhrer barked, leading him through a door, down a short corridor, and out through another door into the open air. A short walk down a gravel path brought them to another, larger two-storey building, and a small windowless room on the ground floor. Several chairs and a table were arranged around the walls, leaving the center of the room empty. The floor had a thin covering of sawdust.

Why are you so interested in this Jew? the Hauptscharfuhrer asked, sounding almost bewildered beneath the bluster.

He helped a friend of mineyears ago, Russell said shortly.

The Hauptscharfuhrer thought about that, and shook his head. Wait here, he said.

Russell waited, pacing to and fro across the room. There was a dark residue in the center of the floor which could have been dried blood. He squatted on his haunches for a better look, but admitted to himself that he didn't really know what dried blood looked like. It was the sort of thing you needed to know in Hitlers realm, he thought. If the Eskimos had fifty words for snow, the Nazis probably had fifty for dried blood.

The minutes stretched out. At one point a frenzied burst of barking erupted in the distance, and died out with equal abruptness. Almost twenty minutes had gone by when the door opened and Felix Wiesner was pushed inside, the Hauptscharfuhrer close behind him. Russell had expected cuts and bruises, and there were lots of them: One of Wiesners eyes was swollen shut, there were dark bruises on his neck, throat, and cheeks, and there was blood in his hair. But that was just the superficial damage. His right hand was encased in a bloody bandage, concealing God knew what injuries, and the doctor was hunched over, apparently unable to walk upright. He looked, Russell thought, like a man whod just been kicked in the genitals. Many, many times.

He was obviously surprised to see someone he knew. Come, Russell said, helping Wiesner into a chair and feeling the pain it cost him.

The Hauptscharfuhrer, who had taken a chair by the door, watched with contempt.

Can we speak in private? Russell asked, knowing what the answer would be.

No. This bastard has forfeited any right to privacy. You have ten minutes, he added, looking at his watch.

Russell turned to Wiesner. Your wife wrote you a letter, but they confiscated it. She told me to read it in case that happened. She wrote that she and the children love you and are dreaming of the day when you come home.

Wiesner sighed, then made a visible effort to gather himself. Thank you, he said quietly, moving his mouth with obvious difficulty. Why are you here? he asked, as if there had to be more.

To help, if I can, Russell said. You know what they accuse you of?

Yes.

Did you see this girl?

Wiesner shifted his body in a vain search for comfort. She came to the clinic. Wanted an abortion. Abused me when I said no.

You dont know who gave her the abortion?

No. But look, he said, speaking slowly, making sure the words came out right, that doesnt matter. Thats over. We are all guilty here. He reached out his good hand and laid it on Russells arm. You must tell my wife to go if she can. To save the girls. And Albert if hes willing to be saved. And herself. She mustnt count on my getting out of here. In fact, she must act as if I was already dead. Do you understand? Can you tell her that? Can you make her believe it?

I can tell her.

She knows where my stamp collectionhe used the English phraseis. It would be worth a lot to Stanley Gibbons. And I would be greatly in your debt.

No you wouldn't, Russell said, glancing across at the Hauptscharfuhrer, who was looking at his watch.

I am ashamed to say it, Wiesner continued, still struggling with every word, but I thought Albert was exaggerating about this placethat he had been less than a mensch. Tell him I am sorry, that now I know.

One minute, the Hauptscharfuhrer said.

Dont tell my wife how bad it is, Wiesner said. Tell her Im all right. Theres nothing she can do.

Russell looked at him. I feel like I want to apologize he said.

Why? You have done nothing.

Russell grimaced. Maybe thats why. I dont know if theres anything I can do to help you, but Ill move heaven and earth to get your family out. I promise you that.

Wiesner nodded, as if that were a deal worth having. Thank you, he whispered as the Hauptscharfuhrer got to his feet.

Time, the man shouted with evident satisfaction. You wait here, he told Russell, shoving Wiesner in the direction of the door. Russell watched the doctor shuffle painfully out, arms folded against the wind, the Hauptscharfuhrer demanding greater speed. The door slammed shut behind them.

Russell sat and waited, staring numbly into space, until the Hauptscharfuhrer returned. Back at the Kommandantura he insisted on asking the Gestapo officer whether the doctors account of events had been checked out. The man hesitated, as if wondering whether the offer of an answer could be justified, and decided it could. Our interrogations are not yet complete, he said dismissively.

You mean hes not dead yet, Russell said.

The Gestapo man gave him a thin smile. What happens here is no concern of foreigners, he said.

Several retorts sprang to mind, but silence seemed wiser. I can leave? he asked.

You can leave.

Russell walked outside to the car. The prisoners were still lined up in the distance, the icy wind still blowing. He reversed the car, drove back to the gates, and waited for them to be opened. As he motored out past the gatehouse he saw the crumpled ball of Eva Wiesners letter lying where the wind had blown it, up against the concrete wall. A kilometer or so down the access road he pulled to a stop, slumped forward with his head against the wheel, and let the waves of rage wash over him.

A LITTLE OVER AN HOUR later he was pulling up outside the Wiesners apartment block in Friedrichshain. He sat in the car for a while, reluctant to go up, as if bringing the bad news would make it real. Many of the people walking by looked Jewish, and most of them looked as if theyd seen better times. Did the faces look haunted, or was he just thinking that they should? Could they see the fists coming? The coshes, the belts, the whips?

Russell wearily climbed the stairs and knocked on the familiar door. It opened immediately, as if Frau Wiesner had been waiting behind it. Hes all right, Russell said, the lie sour on his tongue.

The girls faces filled with hope, but Frau Wiesner searched his face, and saw a different truth. They are not treating him badly? she asked, almost incredulously.

Not too badly, Russell said, glancing pointedly at the girls.

Her face sank with the knowledge that he needed to talk to her alone, but she managed a smile as she shooed the girls back into the other room. Tell me how bad it is, she asked, once the door had closed behind them.

Hes been beaten. But not too badly, Russell lied. He has cuts and bruises. What youd expect from those animals.

God save us, she said, her legs buckling.

Russell helped her into a seat, and steeled himself to pass on her husbands words. He gave me a message for you, he began. You must leave the country if you can, you and the children. He hopes he will be released eventually, but for the momentfor the moment, he emphasizedhe says you must act as if he were dead.

He expected tears, but she gave him a look full of defiance. The children, yes, she said. But I will not go.

The children will need you, Russell said. And your husband will not be coming back, he thought.

They will be all right, she said firmly, as if trying to convince herself. In a decent country, they will be all right. Albert is old enough to look after the girls.

Where is Albert?

Out somewhere. But I will make sure that he looks after the girls.

Your husband sent him a message too, Russell said. He says he understands now what Albert must have been through in the camp. He wants Albert to know hes sorry for doubting him.

Oh, God, she said, burying her face in her hands.

Russell pulled her to him, feeling her silent, racking sobs against his shoulder. One other thing, he said when she was finally still. I am going to England tomorrow. For a few days, taking Effis sister to see an English doctor. Your husband asked if I could get his stamps out of Germany, and this seems like an ideal opportunity. If you agree, I can put them in a safety deposit box in London, and leave the key with my agent. Hes trustworthy.

You are sure?

That hes trustworthy? Yes. That I can get them past customs? Not completely, but Im traveling with the wife of a Nazi and two children. It seems like the best chance were likely to get.

She got up and disappeared into the other room, returning a few moments later with a large, soft-covered book called Achievements of the Third Reich: The First Five Years. COLLECT ALL FIFTY FULL-COLOR STICKERS! a splash in the corner announced, and Felix Wiesner obviously had. Stickers displaying busy factories, the Peoples car, Strength through Joy cruise ships and 47 other bounties of Hitlers reign were neatly affixed to their appropriate squares.

The pictures are only stuck around the edges, she explained. Theres a stamp behind each one.

EFFI SEEMED HAPPY ENOUGH to see him, but was, to most intents and purposes, still on the film-set. Russell could have shocked her out of her absorption with an account of his visit to Sachsenhausen, but there didn't seem any point. He gave her a sanitized version of the visit, more sanitized indeed than the one hed given Frau Wiesner. They made love that night in a friendly, somewhat desultory fashion, rather in the way, Russell imagined, that Mother made love to her over-sensitive SA husband.

The dawn was only breaking over the mist-shrouded Havelsee location when he dropped her off, and he arrived outside the British Embassy almost an hour before it opened. The line of Jews seeking visas was already stretching around the corner into Pariserplatz.

Coffee and hot rolls in the Cafe Kranzler restored his body, but the mornings Beobachter further sunk his spirits. An editorial congratulated the British on their obvious willingness to give up their Empiresarcasm was the highest form of wit in Goebbelslandbefore condemning that same willingness as a clear sign of weakness and decadence. The British had succumbed to humanitatsduselei, humanitarian nonsense. This was not something the Reich would ever countenance.

The line of people eager to escape Hitlers paradise was receding around another corner when Russell got back to the Embassy. Martin Unsworth was in a meeting, and had nothing good to tell him when he eventually came out of it. Someone had stuck a to be refused note on Frau Wiesners file, but he didn't know when or why. He was still working on it but, as Russell could see, they were pretty busy. Russells graphic account of his visit to Sachsenhausen elicited sympathy but little else. He had telegraphed the Washington Embassy with a message for Conway, Unsworth said, but had not had a reply. For all he knew, Conway was taking a few days holiday in New York. And in any case, he didn't see what Conway or anyone else could do about one Jew in a concentration camp, no matter how innocent he was, or how badly he was being treated.

More resigned than raging, Russell left without hitting the banister and drove home to Neuenburgerstrasse. Frau Heideggers door was open, his Sudeten neighbor sitting helplessly in the chair she reserved for the sacrificial coffee-drinker. Russell flashed him a sympathetic smile and ran upstairs to pack the larger of his two worn-out suitcases with three changes of clothes, a toothbrush, and several books. The latter included Achievements of the Third Reich and the 1937 Coronation edition of the A1 Guide and Atlas of London, which hed discovered the previous year in a secondhand bookshop on the Kudamm. Miniatures of their majesties sat side by side over a scrolled Long May They Reign.

The aerodrome at Tempelhof Field was on the other side of the Kreuzberg, about three kilometers away. As they lived fairly close together, Jens had agreed to pick up Paul for a noon arrival at the aerodrome, and Russell arrived with some twenty minutes to spare. The parking lot was small, but the quality of carshis Hanomag exceptedmade up for the lack of quantity. Flying was not for the poor.

The others arrived five minutes later, Paul with a Jungvolk rucksack on his back, his face a study in repressed excitement. The fur-coated Zarah looked anxious, Lothar like a normal four-year-old. Jens ushered them into the one-storey terminal building, clearly intent on smoothing their path. As Zarah disappeared in the direction of the ladies room, he took Russell aside.

It went well yesterday? he asked.

Russell nodded.

And you understand that you must not talk or write about your visit?

Russell nodded again.

For everyones sake, Jens added pointedly.

Look! Paul called out from a window. Its our aeroplane.

Russell joined him.

Its a Ju 52/3m, Paul said knowledgeably, pointing at the plane being fueled out on the tarmac. It has a cruising ceiling of 6,000 meters. It can go 264 kilometers an hour.

Russell looked up. The sky was clearer than it had been. We should see a lot, he said.

Well be over the Reich for two hours, Paul said, as if nothing else was worth seeing.

Zarah had returned. Time to go through customs, Russell told his son, feeling a flutter of nerves run down his spine.

Jens led the way, chatting and laughing with the officials as if they were old friends. Zarahs large suitcase was waved through unopened, as was Pauls rucksack. Russells suitcase, however, they wanted to inspect.

He opened it up and watched, heart in mouth, while the customs official ran his hands through the clothes and came to the books. He looked at these one by one, ignoring those in English and settling on Achievements of the Third Reich. He skipped through a few pages, and gave its owner a quizzical look.

Its for a nephew in England, Russell explained, suddenly conscious that Paul was looking at the book with some surprise. Dont say anything, he silently pleaded, and Paul, catching his eye, seemed to understand.

The man put it back with the others and closed the suitcase. Enjoy your journey, he said.

Once Jens and Zarah had said their goodbyes, the four of them walked out across the tarmac to the silver aeroplane. It had a stubby nose, three enginesone at the front, one on either wingand windows like rectangular portholes. LUFTHANSA was stenciled on the side, a large swastika painted on the tailfin. A short flight of steps took them up to the door, and into a vestibule behind the passenger cabin, where their cases were stowed. In the cabin itself there were five leather-covered seats on each side of the carpeted aisle, each with a high headrest. Theirs were the four at the rear, Russell sitting behind Paul, Zarah behind Lothar.

The other passengers came aboard: a youngish English couple whom Russell had never seen before and four single men, all of whom looked like wealthy businessmen of one sort or another. Judging from their clothes one was English, three German.

A mail truck drew up beside the aeroplane. The driver jumped down, opened the rear door, and dragged three sacks marked DEUTSCHESPOST to the bottom of the steps. A man in a Lufthansa uniform carried them aboard.

We used these against the communists in Spain, Paul said, leaning across the gangway to make himself heard above the rising roar of the engines. They were one of the reasons we won.

Russell nodded. A discussion with his son about the Spanish Civil War seemed overdue, but this was hardly the place. He wondered if Paul had forgotten that his parents had both been communists, or just assumed that theyd seen the error of their ways.

The pilot and co-pilot appeared, introducing themselves with bows and handshakes as they walked down the aisle to their cabin. The stewardess followed in their tracks, making sure that everyone had fastened their leather safety belts. She was a tall, handsome-looking blond of about nineteen with a marked Bavarian accent. A predictable ambassador for Hitlers Germany.

Out on the tarmac a man began waving the plane forward, and the pilot set them in motion, bumping across the concrete surface toward the end of the runway. There was no pause when they reached it, just a surge of the engines and a swift acceleration. Through the gap between seat and wall, Russell could see Pauls ecstatic face pressed to the window. On the other side of the aisle, Zarahs eyes were closed in fright.

Seconds later, Berlin was spreading out below them: the tangle of lines leading south from Anhalter and Potsdamer stations, the suburbs of Schonefeld, Wilmersdorf, Grunewald. Theres my school! Paul almost shouted. And theres the Funkturm, and the Olympic Stadium!

Soon the wide sheet of the Havelsee was receding behind them, the villages, fields, and forests of the northern plain laid out below. They were about a mile up, Russell reckoned, high enough to make anything look beautiful. From this sort of height a Judenfrei village looked much like one that wasnt.

They flew west, over the wide traffic-filled Elbe and the sprawling city of Hannover, crossing into Dutch airspace soon after three oclock. Rotterdam appeared beneath the starboard wing, the channels of the sea-bound Rhineor whatever the Dutch called itbeneath the other. As they crossed the North Sea coast the plane was rocked by turbulence, causing Zarah to clutch the handrests and Paul to give his father a worried look. Russell gave him a reassuring smile. Lothar, he noticed, seemed unconcerned.

The turbulence lasted through most of the sea crossing, and the serene sea below them seemed almost an insult. Looking down at one Hook of Holland-bound steamer Russell felt a hint of regret that theyd traveled by airnot for the lack of comfort, but for the lack of romance. He remembered his first peacetime trip to the Continentthe first few had been on troopships during the Warthe train journey through Kents greenery, the Ostend ferry with its bright red funnels, the strange train waiting in the foreign station, the sense of striking out into the unknown. He hadn't been on a plane for the better part of ten years, but he hadn't missed them.

But Paul was having the time of his life. Can you see England yet? he asked his father.

Yes, Russell realized. The Thanet coast was below him. A large town. Margate probably, or Ramsgate. Places hed never been. And within minutes, or so it seemed, the southeastern suburbs of London were stretching beneath them in the afternoon sun, mile upon mile of neat little houses in a random mesh of roads and railways.

The pilot brought the plane down on the Croydon runway with only the slightest of jolts. The entry formalities were just that, and the car Jens had ordered was waiting at the terminal doors. They drove up the Brighton road, slowed by the busy late afternoon traffic. Paul marveled at the double-decker buses, but was more astonished by the paucity of buildings reaching above two storeys. It was only after Brixton that third, fourth, and fifth floors were grudgingly added.

Russell asked the driver to take them across Westminster Bridge, and was rewarded by the singular sight of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament aglow in the light of the setting sun. As they drove up Whitehall he pointed out Downing Street and the Horseguards; as they swung round Trafalgar Square, Nelson on his lonely column. The Strand seemed choked with buses, but they finally arrived at the Savoy to find that their fifth-floor rooms overlooked the Thames.

They must have cost a fortune, Russell thought. He and Paul looked out of the window at the barges on the tide-swollen river, the electric trains of the Southern Railway moving in and out of Charing Cross Station. Away to their left the piles of the new Waterloo Bridge stuck out of the water like temple remains. This is good, Paul said, with the air of someone truly satisfied.

Russell got an outside line and phoned his London agent Solly Bernstein, hoping to catch him before he went home. Im just on my way out of the door, Bernstein told him. What the hell are you doing in London?

Hoping to see you. Can you squeeze me in tomorrow afternoon?

Ah, just this once. Four oclock?

Fine.

Russell hung up and explained the call to Paul. Im hungry, was the response.

They ate with Zarah and Lothar in the hotel restaurant. The food was excellent, but Zarah, clearly anxious about the next morning, just picked at her plate. When she and Lothar wished them goodnight and retired to their room, Russell and his son took a stroll down to the river, and along the Embankment toward the Houses of Parliament. Opposite County Hall they stopped and leaned against the parapet, the high tide slurping against the wall below. Pedestrians and buses were still crowding Westminster Bridge, long chains of lighted carriages rumbling out of Charing Cross. A line of laden coal barges headed downstream, dark silhouettes against the glittering water. Some lines of Eliot slipped across his brain:

The barges wash

Drifting logs

Down Greenwich reach

Past the Isle of Dogs

He had hated The Waste Land when it came outits elegant despair had felt like defeatism. But the words had stuck. Or some of them at least.

Its been a long day, he told Paul. Time for bed.

ZARAH LOOKED EXHAUSTED OVER breakfast next morning, as if shed hardly slept. Lothar, by contrast, seemed more animated than usual. Paul, asked by his father for an opinion of Zarahs son, had shrugged and said Hes just a bit quiet, thats all.

Reception suggested a bank on the Strand which offered currency exchange and a probable safety deposit service, and Russell left Paul examining the huge model of the Queen Mary in the hotel lobby while he swapped his and Zarahs Reichsmarks for pounds. Safety deposit boxes were available, the cashier informed him proudly. The bank was open until three.

Their appointment in Harley Street was at 11:00, and Zarah had booked a taxi for 10:00. Trafalgar Square was busy, but the cab then raced around Piccadilly and up Regent Street, delivering them to the doctors door with forty-five minutes to spare. A stern-looking receptionist showed them into the waiting room, which was full of highly polished wooden chairs. Paul found a few childrens comics among the society magazines, and went through one with Lothar, pointing out what was happening in the various pictures.

How did you find this doctor? Russell asked.

A friend of Jens at the Embassy here, she replied. He said this man was highly thought of. And he speaks a little German.

Little, as they eventually discovered, was the operative word, and Russell had to function as a full-time interpreter. Doctor Gordon McAllister was a tall ginger-haired man in his forties, with a rather gaunt face, a slight Scottish accent, and an almost apologetic smile. He seemed a nice man, and one who clearly liked children. Effi always claimed that doctors who specialized in womens problems were usually women-haters, but apparently the same logic did not apply to pediatricians.

His office was a bright, spacious room with windows overlooking the street. In addition to his desk, there were several comfortable chairs and a large wooden box full of childrens toys and books. So tell me about Lothar, he asked Zarah through Russell.

She started off nervously but grew more confident as she went on, thanks in large part to the doctors obvious involvement. She said that Lothar sometimes seemed uninterested in everything, that he didn't respond when people talked to him, that at other times he would seem to suddenly lose interest in whatever it was he was doing, and just stop. Hell be in the middle of eating, she said, and just leave the table and go and do something else. And he doesnt always seem to understand what Im telling him to do, she added.

Hes four, yes? the doctor asked.

And three months.

Can he recognize different animals? He walked over to the box and took out a tiger and a rabbit. Lothar, whats this? he asked in German, holding out the tiger.

A tiger.

And this?

A rabbit.

No problems there, then. How about colors? Can he recognize them?

He could. A red balloon, a blue sky, a yellow canary. Having done so, without warning, he walked across to the window and looked out.

The doctor asked Zarah about the birth, about Lothars eating habits, whether there was any history of problems in her or her husbands family. She answered each question, and, in a halting voice, volunteered the information that she had considered aborting Lothar before he was born. I cant help thinking theres a connection, she said, clearly close to tears.

Youre completely wrong about that, the doctor insisted, the moment Russell had translated her words. There is no possible connection.

Then what is it? she asked, wiping a tear away.

Does he get tired easily? Does he seem weakphysically weak, I mean? Can he lift things.

She thought about that. Jensmy husbandhe sometimes says that Lothar lacks strength in his fingers. He doesnt like carrying things. And yes, he does get tired.

The doctor leaned forward on his desk, fingers intertwined beneath his chin. I dont think there is anything seriously wrong with Lothar, he said. Or at least, nothing that cannot be corrected. There is no name for this, but it isnt uncommon. Essentially, he has a weaker link with the rest of the world than most people do, but everyone is different in this respecthes just a bit more different than the norm. And his link can be strengthened. What Lothar needshe ticked them off on his fingersis fresh air and exercise, really good, nutrient-rich foodfresh eggs, fresh fruit, fresh everythingand physical stimulation. Regular massages would help. Give and take gamesthe sort that involve instant physical reactions. And music. All these things stimulate the body, make it more responsive.

But theres nothing seriously wrong? Zarah asked.

Not in my judgment. No.

And he doesnt need any tests?

No.

She took a deep breath. Thank you, doctor. She reached inside her handbag for the neat package of pound notes.

You pay the receptionist, he said with a smile.

But not usually with cash, Russell thought, as they waited for the taxi which the receptionist had ordered. Zarah, who looked as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders, was eager to get back to the Savoy, where she could telephone Jens. Its wonderful news, Russell told her, and received the warmest of smiles in return.

Once back at the hotel, they agreed to meet for lunch in an hour. Leaving Paul exploring the lobby, Russell retrieved Achievements of the Third Reich from their room, and came back down.

Heres the room key, he told Paul. Ill be back in half an hour or so.

Paul was looking at the book. Where are you taking that? he asked. I didn't know you had a nephew in England, he added suspiciously.

I dont, Russell admitted. Ill explain it all this afternoon.

He walked down to the Continental Bank, paid a years rent in cash for the safety deposit box, and was shown into a small room with a single upright chair and table. A clerk bought him a rectangular metal box and two keys, and told him to press the buzzer when he was finished. I already am, Russell said, placing Achievements of the Third Reich inside and locking the box shut. If the clerk was surprised by the nature of the deposit he didn't show it.

Theres more to the Nazis than meets the eye, Russell said.

I dont doubt it, the clerk replied gloomily.

Lunch was an altogether more cheerful affair than breakfast or the previous nights dinner, but 24 largely sleepless hours had taken their toll on Zarah. Im going to take a nap, she said. Well see you this evening.

Asked if there was anything he wanted to do, Paul suggested a walk down to Big Ben. I didn't see it properly in the dark, he explained.

They set off down the Strand, stopping in at Charing Cross to see the Southern trains and admire the Cross itself. After circling the Trafalgar Square ponds and climbing on a lion they marched down the Mall toward Buckingham Palace. The Kings out, Russell said, pointing out the lowered flag.

Kings are outdated, Paul told him.

They cut through to Parliament Square and ventured out onto Westminster Bridge, stopping in the middle to turn and admire Big Ben. You were going to tell me about that book, Paul said rather hesitantly, as if unsure how much he wanted to know.

A small voice in Russells head reminded him how many children had already denounced their parents to the authorities in Germany, and a whole host of other voices laughed out loud. And if he was so wrong about his own son, he told himself, then he probably deserved to be denounced.

He told Paul about the Wiesners: the familys need to emigrate, the fathers arrest, the certain confiscation of their savingsthe savings they would need to start a new life somewhere else.

The savings are in that book? Paul asked incredulously.

Valuable stamps, Russell told him. Hidden behind the stickers.

Paul looked surprised, impressed, and finally dubious. They collected the stamps? Like ordinary Germans?

They are ordinary Germans, Paul. Or they were. How else do you imagine they would get hold of them?

Paul opened his mouth, then obviously thought better of whatever it was he was going to say. They paid you to bring them? he asked, as if he couldn't quite believe it.

No. I did it because I like them. Theyre nice people.

I see, Paul said, though he clearly didn't.

It was almost 3:30. Back in Parliament Square they joined the queue for a 24 bus, and managed to find seats upstairs for the short ride up Whitehall and Charing Cross Road. Solly Bernsteins office was two storeys above a steam laundry in Shaftsbury Avenue and accustomed, as he frequently observed, to hot air. A bulky, middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses, a notable nose and longish black hair, Russells agent seemed unchanged by the last three years.

This is my son, Solly, Russell said.