Zoo Stationee

by David Downing

  With a shock, Russell recognized the man’s face. He’d seen him—talked to him even—at one of Effi’s theatrical gatherings. He had no memory of the man’s name, but he’d been nice enough. With a passion for Hollywood movies, Russell remembered. Katherine Hepburn in particular.

  “Show’s over,” the SA man was saying loudly. “You saw it. They must have cut each other’s pricks off before they jumped.” He laughed. “You can go in now,” he added.

  Russell’s two companions looked like they were in shock. One started to say something, but no sound emerged, and the other just gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. They walked toward their door, giving a wide birth to the two corpses.

  “And you?” the SA man shouted at Russell.

  “I was just passing,” he said automatically.

  “Then keep moving,” the SA man ordered.

  Russell obediently turned and walked away, his eyes still full of the mutilated bodies. The bile in his stomach wouldn’t stay down. Supporting himself against a lamppost he retched his supper into the gutter, then leaned against a wall, brain swirling with the usual useless rage. Another crime that would never be punished, another story that begged to be told.

  And would he risk losing his son to tell it? No, he wouldn’t.

  And was he ashamed of his silence? Yes, he was.

  He levered himself off the wall and walked slowly on toward his own courtyard and block. As he reached the entrance he remembered the empty car. It was gone.

  Inside, Frau Heidegger seemed, as usual, to be waiting for him. “What was all that noise about?” she asked, then noticed his face. “Herr Russell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

  “The SA came for a couple of homosexuals in the next block,” he said. There seemed no point in giving her the gory details.

  “Oh,” she said, shaking her head in involuntary denial. “I know the men you mean. They . . . well . . . it’s not our business, is it?” She ducked back inside her door and re-emerged with an unstamped envelope. “This came for you. A plainclothes policeman delivered it this morning.”

  He opened it. The Gestapo wished to see him. Within three days.

  “They just want a chat,” he reassured her. “Something to do with my accreditation, I expect.”

  “Ah,” she said, sounding less than completely convinced.

  Russell shared her misgivings. As he climbed the stairs, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. They’d read his letter to the Soviets, and just wanted to clarify his intentions. If it was anything else, they wouldn’t be delivering invitations and letting him pick the day—they’d be throwing him out of the window.

  A frisson of fear shot across his chest, and his legs felt strangely unsteady. Suddenly the photographic book seemed like a very bad idea.

  “Ha ho bloody he,” he muttered to himself.

  The Knauer Boy

  THE GESTAPO’S INVITATION TO dance was still on Russell’s desk when he got up the following morning. One Sturmbannführer Kleist was expecting to see John Russell in Room 48, 102 Wilhelmstrasse, within the next 72 hours. No explanation was offered.

  It wasn’t actually the Gestapo—102 Wilhelmstrasse was the head-quarters of the Party intelligence organization, the Sicherheitsdienst. Though both were run by Reinhard Heydrich with a cheery disregard for legal niceties, the SD had a reputation for more sophisticated thuggery—same pain, cleaner floors.

  He read the letter through again, looking for a more sinister message between the lines, and decided there was none. Shchepkin had said they’d want to talk to him, and they did. It was as simple as that. A friendly warning was waiting in Room 48, and nothing more. Sturmbannführer Kleist would turn out to be a Hertha supporter, and they would chat about what had gone wrong this season.

  Still, Russell thought as he shaved, there was no reason to hurry down there. He couldn’t afford to miss the new Chancellery opening at noon, and there was no telling how long the various ceremonies would take. Tomorrow would do. Or even Wednesday.

  Back in his room, he picked up the Leica and took a few imaginary photos. It had no flash, but Zembski had said the lens was good enough for indoor shooting as long as he held the camera steady. And he could always ask the Führer for the loan of a shoulder.

  Cheered by this thought—feeling, in fact, unreasonably buoyant for someone with an appointment at 102 Wilhelmstrasse—he headed downstairs and out into the gray January morning. As if in response to his mood, a tram glided to a halt at the stop on Friedrichstrasse just as he reached it. Ten minutes later he was ensconced in a Café Kranzler window seat, enjoying a first sip of his breakfast coffee as he examined the morning papers.

  Foreign Minister Ribbentrop had been talking to the visiting Polish leader, Colonel Beck—now there were two men who deserved each other. The new battle cruiser Scharnhorst had been commissioned at Wilhelmshaven, complete with nine eleven-inch guns, two catapults, and three planes. The new captain’s main claim to fame was his shelling of a Spanish seaside town in 1937, while commanding the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer. On the home front, Pastor Martin Niemoller’s brother Wilhelm had delivered a sermon attacking government policy toward the churches. He had read a list from the pulpit of all those churchmen—including his brother—currently enjoying the state’s hospitality. The newspaper was not sure whether this constituted a crime: “It has recently been established in certain cases,” the editor wrote, “that to read the names of persons in custody may itself be an offense.”

  On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: The taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.

  Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show off the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Greco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.

  Another coffee brought the time to 11:45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalist’s pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.

  Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognized. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. “My editor was keen,” the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitler’s new building with his presence. Russell gave him an “oh yeah?” look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaney’s office when the latter’s invitation had arrived, complete with an unsolicited—and presumably accidental—extra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on: He had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.

  “A one-man band,” he muttered, looking at Russell’s camera.

  “I prefer to think of myself as a Renaissance man,” Russell told him, just as the doors swung open.

  The fifty or so journalists surged into the lobby, where a shiny-looking toady from the Propaganda Ministry was waiting for them. There would be a short tour of the new building, he announced, during which photographs could be taken. The ceremonial opening would take place in the Great Hall at precisely 1:00 PM, and would be followed by a worker’s lunch for the thousands of people who had worked on the project.

  “There might be some meat, then,” one American journalist muttered.

  The toady led them back outside, and around the corner into Vosstrasse. Huge square columns framed the double-gated main entrance, which led into a large co
urt of honor. Russell hung back to take a couple of photos before following his colleagues up a flight of steps to the reception hall. From there, bronze eagles clutching swastikas guarded fifteen-foot doors to a bigger hall clad in gray and gold tiles. The Führer was unavailable, so Russell used Slaney’s shoulder to steady the Leica.

  More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 meters, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. “And my mother told me size didn’t matter,” one journalist lamented in English. “I expect your father had a whopper,” another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadn’t damaged it.

  The next hall was big enough to build aircraft in. Several hundred people were already waiting for the official opening, but the space still seemed relatively empty, as if mere people were incapable of filling it. Though released by their ministry minder, the group of journalists stuck together in one corner, chatting among themselves as they waited for Hitler’s entrance.

  “We used to have arms races,” Slaney observed. “Now we have hall races. Hitler had this built because he was so impressed by the size of Mussolini’s office. And the moment Benito sees this he’ll have to have one in Rome that’s even bigger. And they’ll both keep outbidding each other until the world runs out of marble.”

  “I have a feeling they’re building arms too,” Dick Normanton said wryly, his Yorkshire accent sounding almost surreal in this setting. He was one of the veteran English correspondents, much pampered by the Propaganda Ministry. This was hardly his fault: Normanton had an acute understanding of where Nazi Germany was headed, and often said as much in his reporting. Unfortunately for him, his London proprietor admired Hitler, and made sure that his editor edited accordingly.

  “If you’re interested in a horror show,” he told Russell, “try the University on Wednesday. Streicher’s inaugurating a new Chair of Anti-Jewish Propaganda and giving a speech. There should be some good Mad Hatter material.”

  “Sounds suitably gruesome,” Russell agreed.

  “What does?” McKinley asked, joining them.

  Normanton explained reluctantly: McKinley was not noted for his love of irony.

  “Why would anyone want to listen to Streicher?” the American asked after Normanton had drifted away. “It’s not as if he’s going to say anything interesting, is it?”

  “I guess not,” Russell agreed diplomatically, and changed the subject. “What do you make of the building?” he asked.

  McKinley sighed. “It’s gross. In every meaning of the word,” he added, looking round.

  Russell found this hard to disagree with; the new Chancellery was indeed gross. But it was also impressive, in a disturbing sort of way. It might be a monument to Hitler’s lack of aesthetic imagination, but it was also proof of intention. This was not the sort of building you could ignore. It meant business.

  It was Russell’s turn to sigh. “How was your weekend?” he asked McKinley.

  “Oh, fine. I caught up on some work, saw a movie. And I went dancing at one of those halls off the Alexanderplatz. With one of the secretaries at the Embassy.” He smiled in reminiscence, and looked about sixteen years old. “And I saw a couple of people for that story I told you about,” he added quickly, as if he’d caught himself slacking.

  “You didn’t actually tell me anything about it.”

  “Ah. I will. In time. In fact I may need your help with. . . .”

  He was drowned out by an eruption of applause. Right arms shot toward the ceiling, as if some celestial puppeteer had suddenly flicked a finger. His Nibs had arrived.

  Russell dutifully lined up the Leica and squeezed off a couple of shots. The Führer was not in uniform and looked, as usual, like an unlikely candidate for leadership of a master race. One arm was stuck at half-mast to acknowledge the welcome, the mouth set in a selfsatisfied smirk. The eyes slowly worked their way around the room, placid as a lizard’s. This man will kill us all, Russell thought.

  A builder’s mate in the traditional top hat of the German artisan— his name, the toady had told them, was Max Hoffman—presented Hitler with the keys to his new home. Flashbulbs popped; hands clapped. The Führer volunteered a few words. He was, he said, the same person he had always been, and wished to be nothing more. “Which means he’s learned absolutely nothing,” Slaney whispered in Russell’s ear.

  And that was that. Moving like a formation dancing team, Hitler and his ring of bodyguards began mingling with the guests in the privileged section of the hall, the ring working like a choosy Venus flytrap, admitting chosen ones to the Presence and spitting them out again. Much to the interest of the watching journalists, the Soviet Ambassador was given by far the longest audience.

  “Fancy a drink?” Slaney asked Russell. Two of the other Americans, Bill Peyton and Hal Manning, were standing behind him. “We’re headed over to that bar on Behrenstrasse.”

  “Suits me,” Russell agreed. He looked around for McKinley, but the youngster had disappeared.

  The sun was still shining, but the temperature had dropped. The bar was dark, warm, and blessed with several empty tables. A huge bear’s head loomed over the one they chose, half-hidden in the dense layer of smoke which hung from the ceiling. Slaney went off to buy the first round.

  “It’s hard to believe that Hitler got started in places like this,” Manning said, lighting a cigarette and offering them round. He was a tall, thin man in his late forties with greying hair and thick black eyebrows in a cadaverous face. Like Slaney he was a veteran foreign correspondent, having worked his way up through Asian capitals and more obscure European postings to the eminence of 1939 Berlin. Peyton was younger—somewhere in his mid-thirties, Russell guessed—with clipped blond hair and a boyish face. He worked full-time for a national weekly and sold stuff to the business monthlies on the side.

  Russell found Peyton irritatingly sure of himself, but he had soft spots for both Manning and Slaney. If Americans remained ignorant about Nazi Germany, it wouldn’t be their fault.

  “So how do we tell this one, boys?” Slaney asked once the beers had been passed round. “Just another grand building? Or megalomania run riot?”

  “New Lair For Monster,” Manning suggested.

  “I like it,” Slaney said, wiping froth off his nose. “Adolf was getting chummy with Astakhov, wasn’t he?”

  Manning agreed. “And Astakhov was lapping it up. I think Stalin’s given up on the Brits and the French.”

  Russell remembered what Shchepkin had said on the subject. “You can hardly blame him after Munich,” he said mildly.

  “True, but you can hardly blame Chamberlain and Daladier for not trusting Stalin,” Peyton said.

  “Bastards all,” Slaney summed up. “I see Chamberlain’s on his way to see the Duce”—he pronounced it Dootch—“in Rome. On some train called the Silver Bullet.”

  Russell laughed. “It’s the Golden Arrow.”

  “Whatever. A week with Mussolini. I hope he likes parades.”

  “What’s he going for?” Peyton asked.

  “God knows. You’d think that by now someone in London would have noticed that the Duce is a man of moods. If he’s feeling good he’ll promise the world, set their Limey minds at rest. If he isn’t, he’ll try and scare the pants off ’em. Whichever he does, he’ll be doing the opposite before the week’s out.”

  “Pity his German chum isn’t a bit more mercurial,” Manning offered. “Once he gets his teeth into something, it stays bitten.”

  “Or swallowed, in the Jew’s case,” Russell added. “Why the hell isn’t Roosevelt doing more to help the Jews here?”

  “He’s building up the Air Corps,” Peyton said. “There was another announcement over the weekend.”

  “Yes, but that won’t help the Jews.”

  “He can’t,” Slaney said. “Too much domestic opposition.”

  Russell wasn’t convinced. “The British are doing something. Nothing like enough, I know. But something.”
r />   “Two reasons,” Manning said. “One, and most important—they just don’t get it back in Washington. Or out in the boonies. When Americans think about German Jews having a hard time, the first thing they think about is what American Jews have to put up with—restricted golf clubs, stuff like that. When they realize that Hitler doesn’t play golf, they still find it hard to imagine anything worse than the way we treat our negroes. Sure, the negroes are condemned to segregation and poverty, but lynchings are pretty rare these days, and the vast majority get a life that’s just about livable. Americans assume it’s the same for the German Jews.”

  “What about the concentration camps?” Russell asked.

  “They just think of them as German prisons. A bit harsh, maybe, but lots of Americans think our prisons should be harsher.” He shrugged and took a gulp of beer.