Zoo Stationee

by David Downing

  “Kings are outdated,” Paul told him.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 Russell’s 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 family’s need to emigrate, the father’s arrest, the certain confiscation of their savings—the 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. They’re 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 Bernstein’s 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, Russell’s agent seemed unchanged by the last three years.

  “This is my son, Solly,” Russell said.

  “My, he’s bigger than I imagined. Welcome to England, young man.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said in English.

  “Ah, a linguist. I have just the book for him.” He searched through the piles on the floor and extracted a large picture book of world aeroplanes. “Have a look at that and tell me what you think,” he said, handing it over. “Throw those books on the floor,” he added, indicating a loaded seat in the corner.

  He turned back to Russell’s grinning face. “It’s good to see you in the flesh. Three years, isn’t it? A long time in today’s world.”

  “Something like that,” Russell agreed, taking a seat.

  “You haven’t come to tell me you’ve found a better agent?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “Well then, I can tell you we’ve sold the “Germany’s Neighbours” series in both Canada and Australia. And here”—he rummaged in a drawer—“is a check to prove it.”

  Russell took it, and passed a sheaf of papers in the opposite direction. “One for each series,” he said. “I thought I’d save the postage.”

  “An expensive way to do it. You came by train, I take it?”

  “Nope. We flew.”

  Bernstein’s eyebrows rose. “Even more expensive. My percentage is obviously too low.”

  “I came for another reason. Two, actually. And one was to ask you a favor.” Russell outlined the Wiesners’ circumstances, his hope that at least some members of the family would be given exit visas before a war broke out. Paul, he noticed, was listening with great interest to his recital. “I’ve just put the family wealth in a safety deposit box,” he told the unusually sober Bernstein. “There are two keys, and I was hoping you’d hang on to one of them. They’ll have the other, but there’s a good chance it would be confiscated at the border.”

  “Why, in heaven’s name?”

  “Simple spite. If Jews are caught carrying a key out, the Nazis will guess it’s for something like this.”

  “I’d be happy to keep one of them.”

  “Thanks,” Russell said, handing the key over. “That’s a weight off my mind.” He stole a glance at Paul, who looked more confused than anything else.

  “How long are you here for?” Bernstein asked.

  “Oh, only till Sunday. I came with my girlfriend’s sister—that was the other reason. She wanted to have her son examined by an English doctor. A long story. But if there’s a war, well, I guess I’ll be back for the duration.”

  “Without him?” Bernstein asked, nodding in Paul’s direction.

  “Without him.”

  Bernstein made a sympathetic face. “Anyway, at least you’ve got a lot of work at the moment. No other ideas you want to talk about?”

  “Not at the moment.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better go. Paul?”

  His son closed the book and brought it over. “You can keep it,” Bernstein said. “Practice your English on the captions.”

  “Thank you,” Paul said. “Very much,” he added carefully.

  “It’s working already.” He offered Paul his hand, then did the same to Russell.

  “He was a nice man,” Paul said, as they made their way down through the steamy stairwell.

  “He is,” Russell agreed, as they reached the pavement. “And he’s Jewish,” he added, hoping that Paul was not going to wipe the handshake off on his coat.

  He didn’t, but he did look upset.

  “They’re wrong about the Jews,” Russell said firmly. “They may be right about many things, but they’re wrong about the Jews.”

  “But everyone says. . . .”

  “Not everyone. I don’t. Your mother doesn’t. Your Uncle Thomas doesn’t. Effi doesn’t.”

  “But the government says. . . .”

  “Governments can be wrong. They’re just people. Like you and me. Look what foreign governments did to Germany in 1918. They were wrong. It happens, Paul. They get things wrong.”

  Paul looked torn between anger and tears.

  “Look. Let’s not spoil the trip arguing about politics. We’re in London—let’s enjoy it.” They were walking down Charing Cross Road by this time. “I know where we can get a cup of tea and a cake,” he said, steering Paul off to the left. A few minutes later they were on the edge of Covent Garden market, dodging trucks piled high with crates of fruit and vegetables. Russell led them into one of the cafés.

  It was full of men sawing at rashers of bacon and dribbling egg down their chins. Fried grease in its gaseous, liquid, and solid forms filled the air, lay congealing on the tables and covered the walls. England, Russell thought. He had a sudden memory of a similar café just outside Victoria Station, where he’d eaten his last meal before service in France. Twenty-one years ago.

  Russell bought two large cups of tea and two aptly named rock cakes. Paul nibbled at the edges of his, rightfully fearing for his teeth, but liked the tea once he’d added four teaspoons of sugar. “The cake is terrible,” he told his father in German, causing several sets of less-than-friendly eyes to swivel their way.

  “Do you know anything about football?” Russell asked the nearest man in English.

  “Maybe.”

  “Are there any games on in London tomorrow?”

  “Arsenal are playing Chelsea,” another man volunteered.

  “At Highbury?”

  “Of course.”

  “And the games still kick off at three? I’ve been working abroad for a while,” he added in explanation.

  “So we see,” the first man said with a leer. “Yeah, they still kick off at three.”

  “Thanks. Would you like to see a game tomorrow?” he asked Paul. “Arsenal are playing Chelsea.”

  His son’s eyes lit up. “Arsenal are the best!”

  They finished their teas, abandoned the half-excavated rock cakes, and picked their way through the vegetable market, taking particular care outside the peel-strewn frontage of a banana wholesaler. It was getting dark now, and Russell wasn’t sure where he was. Looking for a street sign they found one for Bow Street.

  “Bow Street,” Paul echoed. “This is where Chief Inspector Teal brings the men he’s arrested.”

  Away to their left a blue light was shining. They walked up the street and
stood across from the forbidding-looking police station, half-expecting the fictional inspector to emerge through the double doors, busily chewing on a wad of Wrigley’s as he adjusted his bowler hat.

  Back on the Strand they found the Stanley Gibbons stamp shop was still open, and Paul spent a happy twenty minutes deciding which packets of cheap assorted stamps he most wanted. Russell looked in the catalogue for the ones Wiesner had given him in payment and was surprised to find how valuable they were. He wondered how many pounds-worth were nestling behind the stickers in their safety deposit box.

  Zarah was more talkative at dinner than he ever remembered, and seemed newly determined to encourage the idea of his marrying her sister. She and Lothar accompanied them on their after-dinner walk this time, and Lothar, like Paul, seemed enthralled by the huge glittering river and its never-ending procession of barges and other boats. Russell and Zarah agreed upon their plans for Saturday: shopping in the morning, football for him and Paul in the afternoon, dinner with Jens’s embassy friend for her and Lothar in the evening. When they said goodnight outside her and Lothar’s room, she thanked him warmly for his help. They’d almost become friends, Russell thought. Effi would be amazed.

  Paul was yawning, but Russell felt far too restless for sleep. “Bedtime for you,” he told his son. “I’m going back downstairs for a drink. I won’t be long.”

  “You’re just going downstairs?”

  “Yes. No stamp-smuggling tonight. Just a drink.”

  Paul grinned. “All right.”

  For a Friday night, the cocktail lounge seemed unusually empty. Russell bought a pint of bitter, parked himself on a stool at the end of the bar, and played with a beer mat. The taste of the English beer made him feel nostalgic. He had thought about taking Paul out to Guildford, to show him the house where he’d spent most of his own boyhood, but there wouldn’t be time. The next trip perhaps, if there was one.

  He pictured the house, the large garden, the steeply sloping street he’d walked to school each day. He couldn’t say he’d had a happy childhood, but it hadn’t been particularly unhappy either. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but his mother had never really settled in England, despite almost thirty years of trying. His father’s inability or unwillingness to recognize that fact had undermined everything else. There had been a lot of silence in that house.

  He should write to her, he thought. A quick trip to reception provided him with a few sheets of beautifully embossed Savoy writing paper, and he ordered another pint. But after telling her where he was and why, and sketching out the plot of Effi’s new film, he could think of nothing else to say. She hadn’t seen Paul since he was four, and it would take a book to explain him and their relationship.

  He comforted himself with the knowledge that her letters to him were equally inadequate. On those rare occasions when, as adults, they’d been together, they had both enjoyed the experience—he was sure of that—but even then they’d hardly said anything to each other. His mother wasn’t much of a talker or a thinker, which was why she had never liked Ilse. She and Effi, on the other hand, would probably get on like a house on fire. They were doers.

  A shadow crossed the paper as a man slid onto the stool next to his. He had short, dark, brilliantined hair, a sharpish face with a small moustache, and skin that looked unusually pink. He looked about twenty, but was probably older.

  “John Russell?” he asked.

  Oh God, Russell thought. Here we go again. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” he said. “I’m Douglas Fairbanks Jr.”

  “Very good,” the man said admiringly. “Can I get you another drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Well, I think I’ll have one,” he said, raising a finger to the distant barman.

  “Are you old enough?” Russell asked.

  His new companion looked hurt. “Look, there’s no need to be offensive. I’m just. . . .” He paused to order a Manhattan. “Look, I think you know Trelawney-Smythe in Berlin.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Well, he passed your name on to us, and. . . .”

  “Who might you be?”

  “War Office. A department of the War Office. My name’s Simpson. Arnold Simpson.”

  “Right,” Russell said.

  Simpson took an appreciative sip of his Manhattan. “We checked up on you—we have to do that, you understand—and it looks as if Trelawney-Smythe was right. You are a perfect fit. You speak German like a native, you have family and friends there, you even have Nazi connections. You’re ideally placed to work for us.”

  Russell smiled. “You may be right about means and opportunity, but where’s the motive. Why would I want to work for you?”

  Simpson looked taken aback. “How about patriotism?” he asked.

  “I’m as patriotic as the next businessman,” Russell said wryly.

  “Ah. Very good. But seriously.”

  “I was being serious.”

  Simpson took a larger sip of the Manhattan. “Mr. Russell, we know your political history. We know you’ve been badgering the Berlin Embassy about a Jewish family. Whatever you write for the Soviets, we know you don’t like the Nazis. And there’s a war coming, for God’s sake. Don’t you want to do your bit to defeat them?”

  “Mr. Simpson, can’t you people take no for an answer?”

  Now the young man looked affronted. “Of course,” he said. “But. . . .”

  “Goodnight, Mr. Simpson.”

  THEY SPENT THE FIRST PART of Saturday morning following Zarah in and out of clothes stores on Bond Street, the second scouring Hamleys for the stimulating toys which Dr. McAllister had recommended. They found nothing which Zarah considered suitable in either. “German toys are much better,” she announced with a satisfied air on the Regents Street pavement, and Paul agreed with her. There had been no dead soldiers, and those still breathing had been markedly inferior to the ones back home.

  They parted at midday, Russell and Paul wending their way through the streets beyond Oxford Street to the trolleybus terminus at Howland Street. The 627 took them up the Hampstead, Camden, and Seven Sisters Roads to Finsbury Park, where the pubs were already overflowing with men en route to the match. It was a cold afternoon, the would-be spectators exhaling clouds of breath and clapping their gloved hands together as they threaded their way down the back streets to the field. A rosette seller offered red and white for Arsenal, blue and white for Chelsea, and Paul wanted both. “Covering the field, eh?” the man asked with a grin. He had a red and white scarf wrapped around his head, and a flat cap rammed on top of it.

  The match itself was a disappointment—another point in Germany’s column as far as Paul was concerned. It was hard to argue with him: If this was the best football in the world, then the world of football was in trouble. There was none of the magic England had shown in Berlin nine months earlier. In fact, both teams seemed markedly less endowed with basic skills than poor old Hertha.

  What Paul did find fascinating was the crowd. He had no way of appreciating the wit, but he reveled in the sheer volume of noise, and the swirling currents of emotion which rose and fell all around him. “It’s so. . . .” he began, as they crunched their way out across the carpet of roasted peanut shells, but an end to the sentence eluded him.

  At the Arsenal station they shared a seemingly endless tunnel to the platform with several thousand others, and their Piccadilly Line train was full to bursting until it reached King’s Cross. After the relative spaciousness of the U-bahn, the train itself seemed ancient, airless, and claustrophobic—another point in the German column.

  They walked back to the Strand through Covent Garden Market, and ate another delicious dinner in the Savoy restaurant. Paul was quiet, as if busy absorbing his impressions of the last two days. He seemed, Russell thought, more German somehow. But that, he supposed, was only to be expected in England. He hadn’t expected it, though.

  On the way to breakfast next morning he stopped off at reception to consult the hotel’s ABC Railway Guide, and after they’d eaten he told Paul there was something he wanted to sh
ow him. They took a bus up Kingsway and Southampton Row to Euston, and walked through the giant archway to the platforms. The object of their visit was already sitting in Platform 12—the blue and silver Coronation Scot. They bought platform tickets and walked up to where a dozen youngsters were paying court to the gleaming, hissing, streamlined Princess Alice.

  “It’s beautiful,” Paul said, and Russell felt a ridiculous surge of pride in his native country. Paul was right. The German streamliners reeked of speed and power, but this train had a grace they lacked. One mark at least for England.