Silesian Station

'I'm getting to the point where all I feel is anger,' Russell said. 'And useless anger at that.'

'A fine pair we are.'

'Yes. I'll let you get back to work. I'll drive over to Wedding this afternoon, see if Kuzorra is still in business. If not, I'll try to find someone else.'

They walked back down the line of wagons and round the side of the works to the front yard. 'Give my love to Effi ,' Thomas said as Russell climbed into the front seat.

'I will.' He leaned his head out of the window. 'What's the girl's name?'

'Miriam. And I almost forgot.' He took out his wallet and removed a dog-eared photograph of two men, one woman and a girl of about fifteen. 'Rosenfeld's on the left,' Thomas said. 'The others are Miriam and her parents.'

She was a pretty girl. Dark hair and eyes, olive skin, a shy smile. Her figure would have filled out, but the face wouldn't have changed. Not that much, anyway.

Miriam Rosenfeld. A nice Jewish name, Russell thought, as he motored up Slessische Strasse towards the city centre. Miriam Sarah Rosenfeld, of course. It was almost a year since the regime had blessed all Jews with a self-defining second name - Sarah for females, Israel for males. Dumb as a dog in heat, as one of his mother's friends liked to say.

It was another hot summer day. The traffic seemed unusually sparse for noon, but then Berlin was hardly New York. The pavements were busy with pedestrians going about their business, but the faces showed little in the way of animation. Or was he imagining that, looking for depression to mirror his own? Berliners were aggressive talkers, but they could give the English a run for their money when it came to cold reserve.

A long stomach growl reminded him that he hadn't eaten that morning. Gerhardt's frankfurter stand, he decided, and abruptly changed direction, causing the driver behind to sound his horn. A new set of traffic lights outside the main post office held him up for what seemed an age. He found himself thumping the steering wheel in frustration, and then laughing at himself. What was the hurry?

The queue at Gerhardt's stretched out of the concourse beneath the Alexanderplatz Station and into Dircksen-Strasse. It moved quickly though, and Russell was soon ordering his bratwurst and kartoffelsalat from Gerhardt's brother Rolf, the sprightly septuagenarian with the drooping moustache who manned the counter.

'Haven't seen you for a while,' Rolf said, taking Russell's note and handing back some coins.

'I've been in America.'

'Lucky man,' Rolf said, passing over the food. Russell shifted down the counter to add mustard and mayonnaise, stabbed a chunk of potato with the small wooden fork and popped it in his mouth. A mouthful of steaming bratwurst followed. Paul had been right in New York. German hot dogs were better.

He walked back to the Hanomag and sat behind the wheel enjoying his meal. 'A lucky man,' he murmured to himself, and remembered Brecht's line about 'the man who laughs', who had 'simply not yet heard the terrible news.' Well, he'd heard the terrible news and he still wanted to laugh, at least once in a while. Even these clouds had a few stray fragments of silver lining hanging down. He was too old to fight, his son was too young. And Effi would be released the next day.

A drink, he decided. At the Adlon. It was time he caught up with his colleagues.

In the event, only the Chicago Post's Jack Slaney was there, perched on his usual barstool. He greeted Russell with a big grin. 'Beer, whisky or both?'

'Just the beer, thanks,' Russell said, sliding onto the next stool and gazing round. 'Not too busy, is it?'

'It's like this every summer. How was the States?'

'Good. Very good. My son had a whale of a time.'

'Staten Island Ferry?'

'Four times. Statue of Liberty, Central Park, Grand Central Station, Ma-cy's toy department...not to mention the World's Fair.'

'And you're one of us now.'

'News travels fast.'

'We are journalists. How's next year's election looking? Any chance that Lindbergh's going to run?'

'Doesn't look like it. The way things are going in Congress it doesn't look like he needs to. Roosevelt's chances of revising the Neutrality Bill seem to be getting worse, not better. America won't be joining a European war any time soon.'

'Pity. The sooner we get into a war, the sooner I get to go home.'

'What's been happening here?'

'Not much. Lot of grumbling in the press about you British - how the guarantee to Poland has given the Poles a free hand to persecute their poor German minority. A few incidents around Danzig but nothing serious. Calm before the storm, of course.'

'Most calms are.'

'Maybe. The German universities all closed for the summer last week. Two weeks earlier than usual, so the students can help with the harvest. They're busting a gut to get it in on time this year, and why do you think that might be? If I was a betting man - and I am - I'd put money on a new batch of Polish atrocity stories in the first two weeks of August. And then Hitler will start ranting again. A complete idiot could recognize the pattern by this time. I know they're an evil bunch of bastards, but what really gets me down is that they're such an insult to the intelligence.'

'Talking to you is always such a joy.'

'You love it. I'm the only man in Berlin who's more cynical than you are.'

'Maybe. I seem to be moving beyond cynicism, but God knows in what direction.'

'Despair comes highly recommended.'

Russell laughed. 'Like I said, a real pleasure, but I've got be off. I owe you one.'

'At least three actually. Where are you off to?'

'To see a man about a missing girl.'

Wedding had been a communist stronghold before the Nazi takeover, and it still seemed depressed by the outcome of the subsequent reckoning. A few faded hammers and sickles were visible on hard-to-reach surfaces, and billowing swastikas were less ubiquitous than usual. Uwe Kuzorra's office was on the east side of the Muller-Strasse, a hundred metres or so south of the S-bahn. Or it had been - his name was still among those listed by the door, but the detective himself had retired. 'End of last year,' a brisk young woman from the ground floor laundry told Russell. 'If you want his home address, I think they have it upstairs.'

Russell climbed the four flights to Kuzorra's former office, and found it empty. An elderly man with a monocle eventually answered his knock on the opposite door. A wooden table behind him was covered with clocks in various stages of dismantlement, chalk circles surrounding each separate inventory of pieces.

'Yes?'

'Sorry to interrupt, but I was told that you had Uwe Kuzorra's home address.'

'Yes. I do. Come in. Sit down. It may take me a while to find it.'

The room gave off a rich melange of odours - wood polish and metallic oil from the workbench, soapy steam from the laundry below, the unmistakable scent of male cat. The beast in question, a huge black tom, stared blearily back at him from his patch in the sun.

The horologist was shuffling through a pile of papers - mostly unpaid bills, if the frequent mutters of alarm and dismay were anything to go by. 'Ah, here it is,' he said at last, waving a scrap of paper at Russell. '14 Demminer Strasse, Apartment 6. Do you have a pencil?'

Russell recognized the street. He had interviewed a dog breeder there several years earlier - some dreadful piece for an American magazine on the Germans and their pets. The breeder had claimed that Mein Kampf inspired him in his search for pedigree perfection.

It was only a five minute drive. The apartment building was old, but seemed well cared for. A grey-haired woman opened the door - in her early 60s, Russell guessed, but still attractive. He asked if Uwe Kuzorra lived there.