Zoo Stationee

by David Downing

  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, they’d discover that McKinley had collected something nine days after his death. Everyone knew that Himmler was prone to strange flights of dark fantasy—rumor had it that SS agents were searching for the elixir of eternal life in Tibet—but he’d 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.

  There’d be no point in denying it—they’d just drag him down to Heiligegeist and have him identified. He’d have to blame Eleanor McKinley, who was now beyond their reach. She’d given him the passport, he’d say. Asked him to pick up the papers, and he’d 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? He’d sent that on as well.

  It was about as convincing as one of Goering’s economic forecasts. And if some bright spark of Heydrich’s decided to find out if there was anything under his name in any German poste restante, he’d be left without a prayer. He’d just have to hope that no one in the SD had read Getaway or The High Fence, which was at least possible—The 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 Effi’s, 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 Zarah’s husband.

  Jens Biesinger worked for some government inspectorate or other—Russell had never bothered to find out exactly which—and was on his way home. He accepted Effi’s offer of coffee, shook Russell’s 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 I’m sure you will understand. And Effi starts work on her film on Monday. Zarah doesn’t want to wait, so . . . would you escort them? Someone has to, and as an English-speaker—and, of course, someone who is almost part of the family—you would be the ideal person. Naturally, I would pay all the expenses—the flights, the hotel, whatever else is necessary.”

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

  “I’d feel happier if you went with them, John,” Effi interjected.

  “When are you thinking of?” Russell asked Jens. “We’re going away this weekend, and I’ll be in Hamburg on Monday and Tuesday—the Bismarck launch. So it couldn’t be until the middle of next week—Thursday perhaps?”

  “That sounds reasonable.”

  Russell brought up his other idea. “I’d like to take my son too. I’ll pay for him, naturally, but if you could arrange the trip for four. . . . I’ll need his mother’s agreement, of course,” he added.

  Jens smiled. “An excellent plan. It will look more . . . natural. I’ll arrange things for four. If your son can’t 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.”

  “I’m sure she’d 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.

  “You’re not to fall in love with my sister,” she told him.

  HE PHONED ILSE FROM Effi’s flat early the next morning and arranged to have coffee at a café 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 willing—eager, in fact—to get out of the house for a couple of hours.

  The café 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 it’s a wonderful idea,” she said. “We’ll have to inform the school of course, and his Jungvolk leader, but I don’t see how either of them could object. It’ll be an educational experience, won’t it?”

  “I hope so. Matthias won’t object?”

  “Why should he?”

  “No reason at all. Well, that’s good. I expected more of an argument,” he admitted.

  “Why, for heaven’s sake? When have I ever tried to come between you and Paul?”

  He smiled. “You haven’t.”

  She smiled back. “You must be getting lots of work,” she said. “Paul’s 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?”

  “It’s John Russell,” he shouted back.

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

  There was no sign of the girls.

  “I’m 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 wasn’t resisting. He kept saying, ‘I’m coming with you—why are you hitting me?’ They just laughed, called him names. Called the children names. I only thank God that Albert wasn’t 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 where’s 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 haven’t seen him since.”

  “The Gestapo haven’t been back?”

  “No. If they came back, I could ask them about Felix. I don’t know what to do. Some friends say kick up a fuss, or you’ll 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 they’ve arrested him they might arrest me, and then who’ll 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.

  “I’m afraid they have.” They’d been at sea for at least 36 hours. “But I can try talking to someone at the Embassy. I doubt whether they’ll be able to do anything, but it’s worth a try.”

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

  “You have a foreign bank account?”

  “No, of course not, but they think we have—they think we all have them.”

  Russell winced. What could he do? The embassy certainly, but how much would a Jewish doctor’s kindness to a now-departed colleague count for in the grand scheme of things? Not much. He could go to the Alex—or, more worryingly, the Gestapo HQ on Prinz Albrechtstrasse—and make some polite inquiries. Not as a journalist, of course. In fact, Eva Wiesner’s suggestion was a good one. He could say that Wiesner owed him for the girls’ lessons, and that the Jewish swine wasn’t 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.

  “I’ll make some inquiries,” he told her. “Tactfully. I won’t stir up any resentment. I’ll try and find out where he is and why he’s been arrested. And if there’s 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 can’t?”

  “I like to think most people can,” he said. “And that they’re just too afraid to speak up. But lately. . . .” He spread his hands. “If I find out anything definite I’ll be back to let you know. Otherwise I’ll 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 McKinley’s 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 Führer was up there in his frame, beady eyes tracking Russell round the room like some scary inversion of the Mona Lisa—you 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. “You’re out of luck,” he said. “The kike’s in Sachsenhausen, and he won’t be back. Your money’s gone.”

  “What did the bastard do?” Russell asked.

  “Gave a German girl an abortion. That’s 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 King—the third in two years—while 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 he’d broken his hand. Walking back down Wilhelmstrasse, surrounded by billowing swastikas, he simmered with useless rage.

  Back at Effi’s—he seemed to be living there at the moment—he told her what had happened. She advised him to ring Jens—“There’s 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 haven’t managed to arrange anything yet,” Zarah’s 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 politics—it’s a matter of honor. This man’s a doctor and back in 1933, before the Jews were forbidden to practice, he saved the life of my friend’s child.” He went on to explain who Conway was, how he’d involved Russell in teaching Wiesner’s daughters, and his current unreachability in mid-Atlantic. “This is not about helping the Jews; it’s about repaying a debt.”

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

  “I don’t want you to do anything,” Russell insisted, somewhat disingenuously. “I just need to know the details of why he’s been arrested, and what the chances of a visit are. A visit from me, I mean—I know there’s no chance of a family visit. At the moment, his wife and children are in limbo. They can’t do anything but wait. I think the wife needs his blessing to do what’s best for the children.”

  There was a moment’s silence at the other end. “I’ll find out what I can,” Jens said eventually.

  “Thank you,” Russell said. He put down the phone. “I’ll 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 a
n abortion she seemed torn between derision and despair. “Felix would never—never—do anything so foolish,” she said. As for Albert, he’d returned the day before, but had soon gone out again. “I can’t lock him in,” she said. “He’s a man now.”

  Initially, she looked somewhat askance at Russell’s glamorous-looking companion, but Effi’s obvious empathy quickly won her over. The girls were there, and both insisted on getting the visiting film star’s 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.