‘That’s Marietta,’ the woman said. ‘She gets very absorbed in what she’s doing,’ she added, as if she needed to explain the child’s lack of reaction.
Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jürissen. She was younger than he’d first thought – around thirty-five, probably – but she looked both exhausted and malnourished. Only the eyes, a penetrating grey, seemed full of energy.
‘Please take the chairs,’ she said, but McKinley insisted that she took one. He remained standing, his lanky bulk seeming somewhat incongruous in the centre of the room. Apparently realising as much, he retreated to a wall.
‘Have you brought the money?’ Frau Jürissen asked, almost apologetically. This was not a woman who was used to poverty, Russell thought. ‘This is the only work I can do and look after her all day,’ she added, as if more explanation was needed.
McKinley produced his wallet, and counted what looked like several hundred Reichsmarks into her hand. She gazed at the pile for a moment, and then abruptly folded the notes over, and placed them in the pocket of her housecoat. ‘So, where shall I begin?’ she asked.
McKinley wasted no time. ‘You said in your letter that you could not keep silent when children’s lives were at stake,’ he said, pronouncing each word with the utmost care. ‘What made you think they were?’
She placed her hands on the table, one covering the other. ‘I couldn’t believe it at first,’ she said, then paused to get her thoughts in order. ‘I worked for the Brandenburg Health Ministry for over ten years. In the Medical Supplies department. I visited hospitals and asylums on a regular basis, checking inventories, anticipating demands – you understand?’
McKinley nodded.
‘After the Nazi take-over most of the women in my department were encouraged to resign, but my husband was killed in an accident a few weeks after I had Marietta, and they knew I was the only bread-winner in the family. They wanted me to find another husband of course, but until that happened… well, I was good at my job, so they had no real excuse to fire me.’ She looked up. ‘I’m sorry. You don’t need to know all this.’ She looked across at her daughter, who had still shown no sign of recognition that anyone else was in the room. ‘I suppose I knew from the start that she wasn’t, well, ordinary, but I told myself she was just very shy, very self-absorbed… I mean, some adults are like that – they hardly notice that anyone else exists.’ She sighed. ‘But I got to the point where I knew I had to do something, take her to see someone. I knew that might mean she’d be sterilized, but… well, if she stayed the way she is now, she’d never notice whether she had any children or not. Anyway, I took her to a clinic in Potsdam, and they examined her and tested her and said they needed to keep her under observation for a few weeks. I didn’t want to leave her there, but they told me not to be selfish, that Marietta needed professional care if she was ever to come out of her shell.’
‘Did they threaten you?’ McKinley asked.
‘No, not really. They were just impatient with me. Shocked that I didn’t immediately accept that they knew best.’
‘Like most doctors,’ Russell murmured.
‘Perhaps. And maybe they were completely genuine. Maybe Marietta does need whatever it is they have to offer.’
‘So you took her away?’ McKinley asked.
‘I had to. Just two days after I left her in the clinic I was at the Falkenheide asylum – you know it? – it’s just outside Fürstenwalde. I was in the staff canteen, checking through their orders over a cup of coffee, when I became aware of the conversation at the next table. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. And they were speaking quite normally – there was nothing clandestine about it. In a way that was what was most shocking about it – they assumed that their topic of conversation was common knowledge. As far as the asylum staff were concerned, that is.’ She paused, and glanced across at Marietta. ‘What they were talking about was a letter which had been sent out by the Ministry of Justice to all Directors of asylums. That letter wanted the Directors’ opinions on how they should change the system to allow the killing of incurable children. Should they announce a new law, or should they issue administrative decrees and keep the public in ignorance? This is what the people at the next table were debating, even joking about. Three of them were doctors I recognised, and the woman looked like a senior nurse.’
‘This was all spelt out?’ Russell asked incredulously. He instinctively trusted her – could see no reason for her to lie – but her scene in the canteen sounded like one of those stage conversations written to update the audience.
‘No,’ she said, giving Russell an indignant look. ‘They were talking more about how the parents would react, whether they would prefer to hear that their child had simply died of whatever illness they had. It was only when I read the letter that it all made sense.’
‘How? Where?’ McKinley asked excitedly.
‘Like I said, I was in that job a long time. I was on good terms with people in all the asylums. I knew I had to see the letter for myself, and I waited for a chance. A few days later a Director was called out early, and I pretended I had to work late. I found the letter in his office.’
‘I wish you’d kept it,’ McKinley said, more to himself than her.
‘I did,’ she said simply.
‘You did!’ McKinley almost shouted, levering himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. ‘Where is it? Can we see it?’
‘Not now. I don’t have it here.’
‘How much do you need?’ Russell asked.
‘Another five hundred Reichsmarks?’ The question mark was infinitesimal.
‘That’s…’ McKinley began.
‘Good business sense,’ Russell completed for him. ‘She needs the money,’ he added in English.
‘Yes, of course,’ McKinley agreed. ‘I just don’t know how… But I’ll get it. Shall I come back here?’ he asked her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It’s too risky for me. Send the money to the Post Restante on Heiligegeiststrasse. When I get it, I’ll send you the letter.’
‘It’ll be there by tomorrow evening,’ McKinley said, as he wrote out the Neuenburgerstrasse address.
Russell stood up. ‘Did you have any trouble getting Marietta back?’ he asked Theresa Jürissen.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘They wouldn’t let me take her. I had to steal my own child. That’s why we’re here in this place.’
They both looked down at Marietta. Her drawing looked like a forest after a hurricane had hit it. ‘I wish you luck,’ Russell said.
He and McKinley reached the street as a coal train thundered across the arches, and set about retracing their steps. It was raining now, the streets even emptier, a rare neighbourhood bar offering a faint splash of light and noise. They didn’t speak until they reached the tram stop on Berlinerstrasse.
‘If you get this story out, it’ll be your last one from Germany,’ Russell said.
McKinley grinned at him. ‘Worth it though, don’t you think?’
Russell saw the excitement in the young American’s eyes, like an echo of his own younger self. He felt a pang of envy. ‘Yes, I do,’ he agreed.
Russell’s first port of call on the following morning was about ten kilometres, and several worlds, away from the dingy Schönlankerstrasse. The villa, just around the corner from the State Archive in the wealthy suburb of Dahlem, was surrounded by trees full of singing birds, most of whom were probably warbling their gratitude to the Führer. In Schönlankerstrasse it was probably still raining in the dark, but here the sun shone down out of a clear blue sky. The coffee had not been as good since the Jewish cook was ‘allowed to leave,’ but everyone had to make sacrifices.
His pupil Greta was a sixteen-year-old with no interest in learning English. She did, however, like practising her flirting techniques on him. Today it was a new wide-eyed expression which she seemed to think was appealing. She was, he had to admit, a lesson in the nature of beauty. When he’d first set eyes on her,
he’d been struck by how gorgeous she was. But after eighteen months of getting to know her, he found her only marginally more attractive than Herman Goering. Her grasp of English had hardly improved at all in that time, but that didn’t seem to worry anybody. Her father, a doctor of similar age to Wiesner, had not been cursed with the same tainted blood.
An hour later, richer in Reichsmarks but poorer in spirit, Russell retraced his steps down the sunny avenues to the Dahlem Dorf U-bahn station. Changing at Wittenbergplatz, he bought a paper at a platform kiosk and glanced through it on the ride to Alexanderplatz. The Swiss were the latest target – as neutrals, a lead writer announced, they should refrain from expressing opinions about other countries and refuse to take in refugees. The Germans, on the other hand, should get their colonies back. Three reasons were given. The first was ‘inalienable right,’ whatever that was. The second was ‘economic need,’ which presumably came under the inalienable right to loot. The third, which made Russell laugh out loud, was Germany’s ‘right to share in the education of backward peoples’. ‘Thanks to her racial principles,’ the writer announced confidently, ‘the Third Reich stands in the front rank of Powers in this respect.’ Russell thought about this for a while, and decided it could only mean that Germany was well-placed to educate the backward peoples in how deserving their backwardness was.
At Alexanderplatz he picked up the previous Saturday’s Daily Mail for the girls, and discovered that rain was likely to affect the weekend’s English cup-ties. Several columns were given over to Schacht’s dismissal, though, and he found three other articles on German matters. This, as McKinley had said, was where the story was.
Most interesting to Russell, though, was the picture on the back page of the streamlined steam locomotive Coronation, hanging between ship and quay en route to America for some celebration or other. He would keep that for Paul.
He thought about his son as the tram ground its way north-west towards Friedrichshain. On the telephone two nights earlier Paul had used all the right words to describe a thrilling weekend with the Jungvolk, but there had been a different story in the tone of his voice. Or had there? Maybe it was just that adolescent reticence which psychiatrists were so full of these days. He needed a proper talk with the boy, which made this weekend’s summons to Cracow all the more annoying. And to make matters worse, Hertha were at home two Sundays running. Paul could always go with Thomas, but… An away game, he thought suddenly. He could take Paul to an away game the following Sunday. A real trip. He could see no reason why Ilse would object.
And Cracow would be interesting, if nothing else. He had already booked his sleeper tickets and hotel room, and was looking forward to seeing the city for the first time. Both his agents had loved the ‘Germany’s Neighbours’ idea, so there should be some money in it too.
He reached the Wiesners’ stop, walked the short distance to their block, and climbed the stairs. Dr Wiesner, who he hadn’t seen for a couple of weeks, opened the door. He looked noticeably more careworn, but managed a smile of welcome. ‘I wanted to thank you for talking to Albert,’ he said without preamble. ‘And I’d like to ask you another favour. I feel awkward doing this – and please say no if it’s too difficult – but, well, I am just doing what I must. You understand?’
Russell nodded. What now? he wondered.
Wiesner hesitated. He also seemed more unsure of himself, Russell noticed. And who could blame him?
‘Is there any way you could check on the rules for taking things out of the country? For Jews, I mean. It’s just that they keep changing the rules, and if I ask what they are then they’ll just assume I’m trying to get round them.’
‘Of course,’ Russell said. ‘I’ll let you know on Friday.’
Wiesner nodded. ‘One person I know asked about a miniature which had been in his family for a hundred years, and they simply confiscated it,’ he went on, as if Russell still needed convincing.
‘I’ll let you know,’ Russell said again.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m told there’s a good chance that the girls will be allowed to go, and I’d like to…well, provide for them in England. You understand?’
Russell nodded.
‘Very well. Thank you again. I mustn’t take up any more learning time.’ He stepped to the adjoining door and opened it. ‘Girls, come.’ He said it gruffly, but the smile he bestowed on them as they trooped in was almost too full of love. Russell remembered the faces on the Danzig station platform, the sound the woman had made.
The two girls fell on the Daily Mail.
‘You can keep it apart from the back page,’ he told them, and explained that he wanted the picture for his son.
‘Tell us about your son,’ Marthe said. ‘In English, of course,’ she added.
He spent the next twenty minutes talking and answering questions about Paul. The girls were sympathetic to the philatelist, indulgent towards the football fan and lover of modern transport, dismissive of the toy soldier collector. They were particularly impressed by the tale of how, around the age of five, he had almost died of whooping cough. Telling the story, Russell felt almost anxious, as if he wasn’t sure how it was going to end.
He turned the tables for the second half of the lesson, inviting them to talk about their own histories. He regretted this almost instantly, thinking that, given their situation, this was likely to prove upsetting for them. They didn’t see it that way. It wasn’t that they thought the family’s current difficulties were temporary; it was more a matter of their knowing, even with all their problems, that they had more love in their lives than most other people.
It was one of the nicest hours he had ever spent, and walking back to the tram stop on Neue Konigstrasse he reminded himself to thank Doug Conway for the introduction the next time he saw him. The opportunity soon presented itself. Back at the apartment, he found a message from Conway, asking him to call. He did so.
Conway didn’t sound like his usual self. ‘One of our people would like a word,’ he said.
‘What about?’ Russell asked warily.
‘I don’t know. I’m just the messenger.’
‘Ah.’
‘Could you come in, say, tomorrow morning, around 11?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘I’d like to see you too. We’re leaving, by the way. I’ve been posted to Washington.’
‘When? And why haven’t you told me?’
‘I’m telling you now. I only heard a couple of days ago. And we’re going in a couple of weeks.’
‘Well I’m sorry to hear that. From a purely selfish point of view, of course. Is it a promotion?’
‘Sort of. Touch of the up, touch of the sideways. Anyway, we’re having a dinner for a few people on the third – that’s next Friday – and I hoped you and your lady friend could come.’
‘Oh, Effi will be…’ Working, he was going to say. But of course she wouldn’t – Barbarossa would be over, and Mother didn’t start shooting until the thirteenth. ‘I’ll ask her,’ he said. ‘Should be okay, though.’
The Café Kranzler was full of SS officers the next morning, their boots polished to such perfection that any leg movement sent flashes of reflected light from the chandeliers dancing round the walls. Russell hurried his coffee and, with half an hour to burn, ambled down Unter den Linden to the Schloss. The Kaiser’s old home was still empty, but the papers that morning were full of his upcoming eightieth birthday party in Holland. ‘Come back, all is forgiven,’ Russell murmured to himself.
After the Unter den Linden the British Embassy seemed an oasis of languor. The staff drifted to and fro, as if worried they might be caught speeding. Was this the new British plan, Russell wondered. Slow the drift to war by slowing diplomats.
Doug Conway eventually appeared. ‘One of our intelligence people wants to talk to you,’ he said quietly. ‘Nothing formal, just a chat about things.’ Russell grunted his disbelief, and Conway had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘Not my idea – I’m just the messenger.’
‘You said that yesterday.’
‘Well, I am. Look, I’ll take you up. He’s a nice enough chap. His name’s Trelawney-Smythe.’
It would be, Russell thought. He had a pretty good idea what was coming.
The office was a small room high at the back of the building, with a compensating view of the Brandenburg Gate. Conway introduced Russell and withdrew. Trelawney-Smythe, a tall dark-haired man in his thirties with a worried-looking face, ushered him to a seat.
‘Good of you to come,’ he began, rifling through papers on his over-crowded desk. Russell wondered if Sturmbannführer Kleist gave private lessons in desk arrangement. ‘Ah,’ Trelawney-Smythe said triumphantly, extracting a copy of Pravda from the mess. A hand-written sheet was attached with a paper clip.
‘My latest masterpiece,’ Russell murmured. Why was it, he wondered, that British officialdom always brought out the schoolboy in him? After reading one of the Saint stories Paul had asked him why the Saint was so fond of prodding Chief Inspector Teal in the stomach. He had been unable to offer a coherent explanation, but deep down he knew exactly why. He already wanted to prod Trelawney-Smythe in his.
The other man had unclipped the handwritten sheet from the newspaper, and carefully stowed the paper clip away in its rightful place. ‘This is a translation of your article,’ he said.
‘May I see it?’ Russell asked, holding out a hand.
Somewhat taken aback, Trelawney-Smythe handed it over.
Russell glanced through it. They had printed it more or less verbatim. He handed it back.
‘Mr Russell, I’m going to be completely frank with you,’ Trelawney-Smythe said, unconsciously echoing Sturmbannführer Kleist.
Don’t strain yourself, Russell thought.
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