'That's five minutes,' the man said.
She reached out a hand, but before he could respond the Rottenfuhrer was between them, hustling him out of the cell. 'Try not to worry,' Russell shouted over his shoulder, conscious of how fatuous it sounded.
Back upstairs, Hauptsturmfuhrer Ritschel looked, if possible, even more pleased with himself. Russell took the proffered seat and implored himself to remain calm.
'Your passport,' Ritschel demanded, holding out a peremptory hand.
Russell passed it across. 'Has Fraulein Koenen been formally charged?' he asked.
'Not yet. Soon, perhaps. We are still taking witness statements. Any trial will not be for several weeks.'
'And until that time?'
'She will remain here. Space permitting, of course. It may be necessary to move her to Columbiahaus.'
Russell's heart sank, as it was supposed to.
'After sentencing it will be Ravensbruck, of course,' Ritschel added, as if determined to give a thorough account of Effi's future. 'And the sentence - unfairly perhaps - is bound to reflect Fraulein Koenen's celebrity status. A National Socialist court cannot be seen to favour the rich and famous. On the contrary...'
'Effi is hardly rich.'
'No? I understand that her father gave her an apartment on her twenty-fifth birthday. Do many Germans receive that sort of financial help? I did not. And neither, as far as I know, did anyone in this building.'
It was a hard point to argue without free access to all Gestapo bank accounts, which Russell was unlikely to be granted. 'The court may not share your presumption of guilt,' he said mildly.
'You know what she said?'
Russell took a deep breath. 'Yes, I do. But people have always made jokes about their political leaders. A pretty harmless way of expressing disagreement in my opinion.'
'Perhaps. But against the law, nevertheless.' He picked up the passport. 'Let's talk about you for a moment. Why have you become an American citizen, Herr Russell?'
'Because I'm afraid that England and Germany will soon be at war, and I do not wish to be separated from my son. Or from Fraulein Koenen.'
'Do you feel emotionally attached to America?'
'Not in the slightest,' Russell said firmly. 'It's a wholly vulgar country run by Jewish financiers,' he added, hoping he was not overdoing it.
Ritschel looked pleasantly surprised. 'Then why not become a German citizen?'
'My newspaper employs me as a foreign correspondent - if I ceased to be foreign I would no longer be seen as a neutral observer. And my mother would see it as a betrayal,' he added, egging the pudding somewhat. It seemed unwise to mention the real reason, that being a foreigner gave him a degree of immunity, and some hope of getting Paul and Effi out of the country should one or both of them ever decide they wanted to leave.
'I understand that you wish to keep your job, Herr Russell. But just between ourselves, let's recognize this "neutral observer" nonsense for what it is. The Reich has friends and enemies, and you would be wise - both for your own sake and that of your lady friend - to make it clear which side of that fence you are on.' His hand shot out with the passport. 'Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth of the Sicherheitsdienst wishes to see you at 11am on Wednesday. Room 47, 102 Wilhelmstrasse.'
Russell took the passport and stood up. 'When can I see Fraulein Koenen again?'
'That will depend on the outcome of your meeting with Hauptsturmfuhrer Hirth.'
Standing on the pavement outside, Russell could still feel the movement of the Europa inside him. A black-uniformed sentry was eyeing him coldly, but he felt an enormous reluctance to leave, as if his being only a hundred metres away might somehow help to protect her.
He dragged himself away, and started up the wide Wilhelmstrasse. The government buildings on the eastern side - the Finance, Propaganda and Justice ministries - were all bathed in sunlight, the Fuhrer's digs on the western side cloaked, rather more suitably, in shadow. At the corner of Unter den Linden he almost sleep-walked into the Adlon Hotel, but decided at the last moment that an encounter with his foreign press corps colleagues was more than he could handle on this particular evening. He felt like a real drink, but decided on coffee at Schmidt's - if ever he needed a clear head it was now.
The cafe was almost empty, caught in the gap between its workday clientele and the evening crowd. After taking his choice of the window-seats Russell, more out of habit than desire, reached across for the newspaper that someone had left on the adjoining table. Hitler had opened an art exhibition in Munich, accompanied by the Gauleiter of Danzig and Comrade Astakhov, the Soviet charge d'affaires. This interesting combination had watched a procession of floats, most of which were described in mind-numbing detail. Sudetenland was a silver eagle, Bohemia a pair of lions guarding the gateway to the East, as represented by a couple of Byzantine minarets. The Fuhrer had gone to see The Merry Widow that evening, but 'Miss Madeleine Verne, the solo dancer' had failed to show up.
Who could blame her?
Russell tossed the newspaper back. He didn't feel ready for re-immersion into Nazi Germany's bizarre pantomime.
At least the coffee was good. The only decent cup he'd had in America was in the Italian pavilion at the World's Fair.
Zarah, he reminded himself. The telephone in the back corridor was not being used, and he stood beside it for a few seconds before dialling, wondering what he was going to say. Not the truth, anyway. She picked up after the first ring, and sounded as if she'd been crying.
'I've seen her,' he said. 'She's fine. They've told me to come back on Wednesday, and they'll probably release her then.'
'Why? I don't understand. If they're going to release her, why not now?'
'Bureaucracy, I think. She has to receive a formal warning from some official or other. They didn't give me any details.'
'But she will be released on Wednesday?'
'That's what I was told,' he said. There was no point in her spending the next two days in a state of high anxiety. If the Sicherheitsdienst was playing sick games with them, she'd find out soon enough.
'Thank you, John,' she said. 'They won't let me see her, I suppose.'
'I don't think so. They won't let me see her again until then. I think it's probably better to just wait.'
'Yes, I can see that. But she's all right.'
'She's fine. A little frightened, but fine.'
'Thank you.'
'I'll ring you on Wednesday. Effi will ring you.'
'Thank you.'
He jiggled the cut-off switch and dialled Ilse's number. 'Paul's in the bath,' his ex-wife told him.
'I've seen Effi and she's all right. Can you tell him that?'
'Of course. But...'
'I think they're going to let her go on Wednesday.'
'That's good. You must be relieved. More than relieved.'
'You could say that.'
'Paul seems to have had a wonderful time.'
'He did, didn't he? I hope he doesn't find the transition too difficult. It's a bit like coming up from the ocean floor - you need to take your time.'
'Mmm. I'll watch for signs. What about this weekend? Are you...'
'He'll want to catch up with all of you, won't he? I'd like to see him, but maybe just a couple of hours?'
'That sounds good, but I'll ask him.'
'Thanks, Ilse.'
'I hope it all goes well.'
'Me too.'
He went back to the rest of his coffee, ordered a schnapps to go with it. He supposed he should eat, but didn't feel hungry. What would Heydrich's organization want from him? More to the point, would it be something in his power to give? The Sicherheitsdienst - the SD, as it was popularly known - had started life as the Nazi Party's intelligence apparatus, and now served the Nazi state in the same role. It thrived on betrayals, but the only person Russell could betray was himself. No, that wasn't strictly true. There was the sailor in Kiel who had given him the Baltic fleet dispositions, not to mention the man's prostitute girl
friend. But if the SD knew anything about Kiel, he wouldn't be drinking schnapps in a cafe on the Unter den Linden.
So what did they want him for? As an informant, perhaps. A snitch in the expatriate community. And among the German press corps. He had a lot of friends and acquaintances who still wrote - with well-concealed disgust in most cases - for the Nazi press. Effi might be asked to report on her fellow thespians.
Or maybe they were more interested in his communist contacts. They certainly knew about his communist past, and after the business in March they probably had a highly exaggerated notion of his current involvement. They might want to use him as bait, luring comrades up to the surface.
The latter seemed more likely on reflection, but who knew what the bastards were thinking?
He paid the bill and stood out on the pavement once more. Where to go - his rooms in Hallesches Tor or Effi's flat, where he'd been spending the majority of his nights? Her flat, he decided. Check that everything was all right, make sure the Gestapo had remembered to flush.
When it came down to it, he just wanted to feel close to her.
He walked through to Friedrichstrasse and took a westbound Stadtbahn train. There was a leaflet on the only empty seat. He picked it up, sat down, and looked at it. 'Do you want another war?' the headline asked him. The text below advised resistance.
Looking up, he noticed that several of his fellow-passengers were staring at him. Wondering, he supposed, what he was going to do with the treasonous missive now that he'd read it. He thought about crumpling the leafl et up and dropping it, but felt a sudden, unreasoning loyalty to whoever had taken the enormous risk of writing, producing and distributing it. Two minutes later, as his train drew into Zoo Station, he placed the leaflet back on the seat where he'd found it and got off. The attractive young woman sitting opposite gave him what might have been an encouraging smile.
He collected his suitcases from the left luggage and walked the half-kilometre to Effi's flat on Carmerstrasse. Everything looked much as he'd last seen it - if the Gestapo had conducted a search then they'd tidied up after themselves. So they hadn't conducted a search. Russell sniffed the air for a trace of Effi's perfume but all he could smell was her absence. He leaned against the jamb of the bedroom door, picturing her in the cell. He told him-self that they wouldn't hurt her, that they knew the threat was enough, but a sliver of panic still tightened his chest.
He stood there, eyes closed, for a minute or more, and then urged himself back into motion. His car should be here, he realized. He locked up and carried his cases back down. The Hanomag was sitting in the rear courtyard, looking none the worse for a month of Effi's erratic driving. It started first time.
Twenty minutes later he was easing it into his own courtyard on Neuenburger Strasse. He felt less than ready to face Frau Heidegger and the inevitable deluge of welcome home questions, but the only way to his room led past her ever-open door. Which, much to his surprise, was closed. He stood there staring at it, and suddenly realized. The third week of July - the annual holiday with her brother's family in Stettin. Her sour-faced sister would be filling in, and she had never shown the slightest interest in what was happening elsewhere in the building. Frau Heidegger was fond of claiming that the life of a portierfrau was a true vocation, but her sister, it seemed, had not heard the call.
He lugged the suitcases up to his fourth floor rooms, and dumped them on his bed unopened. The air seemed hot and stale, but throwing the windows wide made little difference - night was falling much faster than the temperature, and the breeze had vanished. There were two bottles of beer in the cupboard above the sink, and Russell took one to his favourite seat by the window. The beer was warm and fl at, which seemed appropriate.
None of it was going to go away, he thought. Effi might be released on Wednesday, but they could always rearrest her, and next time they might feel the need - or merely the desire - to inflict a little pain. If Effi left him - God forbid - there was always Paul. Some sort of pressure could always be applied. The only way to stop it was to leave, and that would mean leaving alone. They would never let Effi out of the country now, and Ilse would never agree to Paul going. Why should she? She loved the boy as much as he did.
If he left, they'd all be safe. The bastards would have nothing to gain. Or would they? They'd probably find jobs for him to do in Britain or the US. Do you care what happens to your family in Germany? Then do this for us.
He needed to talk to someone, he realized. And there was only Thomas, his former brother-in-law, his best friend. The only man in Berlin - on Earth, come to that - whom he would trust with his life.
He went back downstairs to the telephone.
Thomas sounded happy to hear from him. 'How was America?' he asked.
'Wonderful. But I've run into a few problems since I got back.'
'How long have you been back?'
'In Berlin, about six hours. I'd like a chat, Thomas. Can you find me a half hour or so tomorrow morning if I come to the works?'
'I imagine so. But wouldn't you rather have lunch?'
'I need a private chat.'
'Ah. All right. Ten-thirty? Eleven?'
'Ten-thirty. I'll be there.' Hanging up, he realized he hadn't even asked after Thomas's wife and children.
Back in his room he sat in the window, taking desultory swigs from the second bottle of beer. The roofs of the government district were visible in the distance, a barely discernible line against the night sky. He thought of Effi in her cell, hoped she was curled up in sleep, cocooned from the evil around her.
The Schade Printing Works were in Treptow, a couple of streets from the River Spree. As Russell parked the Hanomag alongside Thomas's Adler, a ship's horn sounded on the river, a long mournful sound for such a bright morning. Russell had only managed a few dream-wracked hours of unconsciousness, and the coffee he'd grabbed at Gorlitzer Station had propelled his heart into an unwelcome gallop for longer than seemed safe.
The main print room was the usual cacophony of machines. Thomas's office was at the other end, and Russell exchanged nods of recognition with a couple of the men on his way through. Both looked like Jews, and probably were. Schade Printing Works employed a higher percentage of Jews than any business in Berlin, largely because Thomas insisted that he needed all his highly-skilled workforce to fulfil his many contracts with the government. The irony was not lost on his Jewish workers, much of whose work involved printing anti-Semitic tracts.
A smiling Thomas arose from his desk to shake Russell's hand. 'God, you look terrible,' he half-shouted over the din. 'What's happened?' he added, seeing the look in his friend's eyes.
Russell shut the door, which cut the noise by half. 'Effi's been arrested.'
'Why - or do I need to ask? Someone informed on her... I'm sorry, that's not helpful. Where is she?'
'Prinz Albrecht-Strasse. Can we talk outside?'
'Of course.' Thomas led him back into the printing room, through a store-room and down a few steps into the yard, where a line of tarpaulin-covered wagons stood ready for unloading in the company siding. The two men walked down past the buffers and sat side by side on a low brick wall, facing the yard and printing works. Birds sang in the weed-covered wasteland behind them; a rumble of machinery emanated from the cement works on the other side of the tracks.
'This do?'
Russell looked round. No one could get within earshot without being seen. 'They're going to let her go tomorrow - or at least I think they will. They more or less said as much. I was allowed five minutes with her yesterday - she's scared but she's okay. They haven't done anything to her, haven't even questioned her as far as I know.'
'So what...'
'It's me they're after. They'll only let her go if I agree to work for them.'
'Doing what?'
'I'll find that out tomorrow.'
'What could you do for them?'
'Ah. There's a history to this that you don't know about. You remember those articles I wrote for Pravd
a?'
'On the positive aspects of Nazi Germany? How could I forget?'
'I needed the money. And the Soviets fed me a line about preparing their readers for peace which I could just about swallow. As I expected, they wanted more than my magic pen - a little espionage on the side. I refused, of course; but then I got involved with the Wiesners - remember them? Felix Wiesner was a big-time doctor until the Nazis came along - an Iron Cross, First Class, by the way - but Kristallnacht finally convinced him that there was no future for his family here. His son was sent to Sachsenhausen and badly beaten. Felix hired me to teach his daughters English so they'd have a head start once he got them out. But then they arrested him on a trumped-up abortion charge, sent him to Sachsenhausen, and beat him to death. His widow and daughters were left in limbo, his son was on the run from the Gestapo. Enter yours truly with a brilliant idea. The Soviets wanted me to bring a few papers out of the country, papers that would interest any of Germany's enemies. I agreed to do it if they got Wiesner's son across the border, and I offered copies to the British in exchange for exit visas for the mother and two girls. Oh, and I demanded an American passport for myself, which I've just been given. Now I won't have to leave Paul and Effi behind when Chamberlain finally stands up to Hitler.'
Thomas was momentarily lost for words. 'My God,' he murmured.
Russell gave him a wry smile. 'It seemed like a good idea at the time.' He paused as a local passenger train rattled by. 'Still does, actually.'
'It sounds like you got away with it.'
'I thought I had. The bastards don't have anything definite against me, but they've got reasons to be suspicious. They know I was in contact with the Soviets over the articles, and they know that the Soviets expect more from their foreign correspondents than journalism. Hell, everyone does these days. The Gestapo, the SD, whichever bunch of goons we're talking about - they'll all be assuming I have contacts among communist circles here in Germany. And if they want to use me as a way in, then they've hit on the perfect way of getting me to cooperate.'
'Did Effi provide them with the excuse?'
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