Stattin Station

'Do they have the infantry?'

Russell shrugged. 'My guess would be not, but that may be wishful thinking.'

As he ate, another likely consequence of the German emphasis on tanks and tank-supportive planes occurred to him. If German production had all been geared to blitzkrieg over the last few years, there was no chance of Hitler having a fleet of long-range bombers up his sleeve. Russell could understand why Dallin and his Washington bosses were worried: their country was accustomed to immunity from such threats, and the appearance of German bombers in the skies above Manhattan would certainly wreak havoc in the American psyche. But there was no substance to this particular piece of paranoia, and nothing to be gained from his seeking out Franz Knieriem.

Nothing for the Americans, that was. He might earn himself a few points by showing willing. He could at least find out whether the man was still living at the same address - there was no risk in that. And there was always the chance that Knieriem had moved, which would give him grounds for further procrastination. If his luck was really in, the address was now a bomb site.

The slivers of sausage actually tasted quite good, unlike the cabbage and potatoes which tasted of salt and little else.

A waiter materialised at his elbow. 'A call for you, sir,' he said. 'In reception.'

It was his ex-wife Ilse. 'You always told me I could reach you there,' she said, 'but I never quite believed it.'

'Now you know.'

'It's Paul,' she told him. 'He's said something he shouldn't have at school, and...'

'What did he say?'

'I don't know. I'll find out when he gets home. But they want to see his parents, and Matthias is in Hannover.' Paul's stepfather, a thoroughly respectable German businessman, usually acted in loco parentis where the authorities were concerned. 'I'd rather not go alone,' Ilse added.

'What time?' Russell asked.

'Six o'clock. Say half past five here.'

'I'll be there.'

'Thanks.'

Russell replaced the earpiece. Another missed press conference performance at Promi, he thought. Another silver lining. But what about the cloud - what had Paul been saying?

Russell left plenty of time for the endless ride out to Grunewald, but one tram broke down and the driver of the next seemed unwilling to risk a speed of more than ten kilometres an hour. Getting round the city grew more frustrating by the day, except for those with the right connections. Arriving ten minutes late at the Gehrts' house, he found Matthias's Horch staring out of an open garage door, its numberplate adorned with the priceless red square which allowed its owner the luxury of continuing use. Russell felt like unscrewing the numberplate there and then, but a written permit was also required.

Ilse opened the door before he had time to ring the bell. She looked worried.

'Well?' Russell asked. 'What's it all about?'

'Two jokes, and one was about Hitler. Paul should know better.'

'Where is he?'

'In his room.'

Russell climbed the stairs, wondering what sort of reception he was going to get. Over the last few months his fourteen-year-old son had seemed increasingly exasperated with him, as if Russell just didn't get it - whatever it was. Ilse thought it age-related, but the boy didn't seem to behave the same way with her or his stepfather, and Russell knew that his being English, and the complications which that had necessarily caused in Paul's German life, had more than a little to do with their recent difficulties. But there was nothing Russell could do about that. 'It's like your snoring,' Effi had told him when they talked about it. 'I want to murder you, and knowing you can't help it makes it even worse. I can't even blame you.'

He crossed the large landing, and put his head around Paul's half-open door. His son was doing his homework, tracing one of the maps in his Stieler's Atlas. 'Another fine mess you've got yourself into,' Russell observed. Paul loved Laurel and Hardy.

'What are you doing here?' Paul exclaimed. 'If you go to the school, it'll makes things worse.'

Russell sat down on the bed. 'They know you have an English father, Paul. It won't be news.'

'Yes, but...'

'What were the jokes?'

'They were just jokes.'

'Jokes are sometimes important.'

'Well I can't see that these two were. All right, I'll tell you. Describe the perfect German.' Russell had heard this one, but let Paul supply the punchline - 'Someone blond as Hitler, slim as Goering and tall as Goebbels.'

Russell smiled. 'You forgot clever as Ley and sane as Hess. What was the other?'

'One man says: "When the war's over I'm going to do a bicycle tour of the Reich." His friend replies: "So what will you do after lunch?"'

Russell laughed. 'That's a good one.'

'Yes, but it's just a silly joke. I don't really think we'll lose the war. It's just a joke.'

'They'll call it defeatism. And the first joke - these people take their racial stereotypes seriously. And they don't like being mocked.'

'But everyone tells jokes like those.'

'I know.'

'John, we have to go,' Ilse called from downstairs.

'Coming,' he shouted back. As he got up he noticed the picture of Udet on the wall, alongside Molders and the U-boat ace Gunther Prien. 'It was sad what happened to Udet,' he said.

Paul looked at him disbelievingly. 'You didn't like him.'

Russell had no memory of saying so to his son, but he probably had. 'He was a wonderful pilot,' he said weakly.

'I want to see the funeral march on Saturday,' Paul insisted.

'Fine,' Russell agreed. 'I'll check the route.'

He kissed his son's head, and went back down to Ilse. 'We just nod our heads and look humble,' she told him as they started down the street towards the school. 'No arguments, no smart replies. And no jokes.'

'You'll be saying he gets it from me next.'

'Well he does, doesn't he? But I'm not blaming you. I like it that he doesn't believe most of what they tell him.'

'What does Matthias think?'

'He's angry. But then these days he's angry about anything that reminds him of the government we've got. He'd rather just wake up when it's all over.'

It was the first time Russell had ever heard his ex-wife criticise her current husband, and he felt rather ashamed of enjoying the moment.

They walked through the school doors and down the corridor to Paul's classroom, where his teacher, a grey-haired man in his fifties or sixties, was marking a pile of exercise books. A large map of the western Soviet Union adorned one wall, complete with arrows depicting German advances. Russell wondered if the teacher knew that he and Ilse had met in Moscow, two young and eager communists out to change the world. No jokes, he reminded himself.

The teacher's name was Weber. He proved stern and apparently humourless, but also surprisingly reasonable. It turned out that one boy had repeated Paul's jokes to his own parents, and the father had turned up at the school in a rage that morning. The boy had not named Paul as the source, but once the matter had been discussed in class, Paul had privately informed Herr Weber of his guilt. The teacher had no intention of divulging Paul's name to the complaining parent, a man, he implied, who was somewhat over-zealous in ideological matters. Paul had an excellent record in the Jungvolk, Herr Weber went on, and had started out well in the Hitlerjugend, but, like many spirited boys of his age, he clearly felt the urge to test the boundaries of what was permissible. Which was all perfectly normal. But in days like these, such testing could have disproportionate consequences, and it was highly advisable for both teachers and parents to clarify those boundaries wherever they could.