They took the elevator once more, and found an empty stretch of rail on the less-popular side, looking away from the city. Down to their left an S-bahn train was pulling out of the Olympic Stadium station.
I didn't want to fight, Russell began, after pausing to marshal his thoughts. I didn't volunteerI was conscripted. I could have refused, and probably gone to prison instead, but I wasnt certain enough about my feelings to do that. I thought maybe I was just afraid, and that I was hiding behind my opinions. But once I got to the trenches it was different. There were a few idiots who still believed in death and glory, but most of us knew that wed been conned. All the governments were telling their soldiers that they had God and right on their side, and that dying for their country was the least they could do, but . . . well, think about itwhat does it mean, dying for your country? What exactly is your country? The buildings and the grass and the trees? The people? The way of life? People say you should love your country and be proud of it, and there are usually things to love and be proud of. But there are usually things to dislike as well, and every country has things to be ashamed of. So what does dying for your country achieve? Nothing, as far as I could see. Living for your country, you get the chance to make it better. He looked at his son, whose expression was almost fierce.
Our leader says that people who dont want to fight are cowards.
I expect some of them are. But . . . you remember the Boer War in South Africa, between the English and the Boers? Well, the Indian nationalist leader Gandhi, he was a leader of the Indians in South Africa then, and he refused to fight. Instead he organized medical teams which helped the wounded on the battlefield. He and his people were always in the thick of the action, and lots of them were killed. They wouldn't fight, but they were about as far from cowards as you can get.
Paul looked thoughtful.
But I wouldn't say anything like that at a Jungvolk meeting, Russell went on, suddenly conscious of the yearbook he was carrying. Youd just get yourself in trouble. Think about things, and decide what you think is right, but keep it to yourself, or the family at least. These are dangerous times were living in, and a lot of people are frightened of people who dont think like they do. And frightened people tend to lash out.
But if you know somethings wrong, isnt it cowardly to just keep quiet?
This was what Russell was afraid of. How could you protect children from the general idiocy without putting them at risk? It can be, he said carefully. But theres not much point picking a fight if you know youre bound to lose. Better to wait until you have some chance of winning. The important thing is not to lose sight of what is right and what is wrong. You may not be able to do anything about it at the time, but nothing lasts forever. Youll get a chance eventually.
Paul gave him a grown-up look, as if he knew full well that Russell was talking as much about himself as his son.
WITH TIME TO BURN, Russell took the long tram ride back down Kudamm, spent a couple of hours over dinner in a bar, and then went in search of a movie to watch. The new U-boat drama was showing at the Alhambra, a Zara Leander weepie at the Ufa Palast, and an American Western at the Universum. He chose the latter and reached his seat just as the weekly newsreel was getting started. A rather beautiful piece on Christmas markets in the Rhineland was followed by lots of thunderous marching and a German volleyball triumph in Romania. Suitably uplifted, the audience noisily enjoyed the Western, which almost made up in spectacle what it lacked in every other department.
Effis audience had gone home by the time he reached the theater on Nurnbergstrasse, and he only had to wait a few minutes for her to emerge from the dressing rooms. She had forgotten to eat anything between the matinee and evening shows, and was starving. They walked to a new bar on the Kudamm which one of the new Valkyries had told her served the most incredible omelettes.
They were indeed incredible, but the male clientele, most of whom seemed to be in uniform, left a lot to be desired. Four SS men took a neighboring table soon after their food arrived, and grew increasingly vocal with each round of schnapps. Russell could almost feel their need for a target take shape.
Effi was telling him about Zarahs latest neurosisher sister was increasingly worried that her infant son was a slow learnerwhen the first comments were directed at their table. One of the SS men had noticed Effis Jewish looks and loudly remarked on the fact to his companions. He was only about twenty, Russell thought, and when he succeeded in catching the young mans eye, he had the brief satisfaction of seeing a hint of shame in the way the man quickly looked away.
By this time Effi was rifling through her purse. Finding what she was looking for, and ignoring him, she stood up, advanced on the SS table, and held the fragebogen up to them, rather in the manner of a school-teacher lecturing a bunch of particularly obtuse children. See this, you morons, she said, loud enough for the whole bar to hear. Aryan descent, all the way back to Luthers time. Satisfied?
The manager was already at her shoulder. Fraulein, please. . . . he began.
I want these drunken pigs thrown out, she told him.
The oldest of the SS men was also on his feet. I would advise you to be careful, fraulein, he said. You may not be a Jew, but that doesnt give you the right to insult members of the Fuhrers bodyguard.
Effi ignored him. Are you going to throw these pigs out? she asked the manager.
He looked mortified. I. . . .
Very well. You wont get any more business from me. Or any of my friends. I hope, she concluded with one last contemptuous glance at the SS, that you can make a living selling swill to these pigs.
She headed for the door, as Russell, half-amused and half-fearful, counted out a few marks for their meal and listened to the SS men argue about whether to arrest her. When one of them took a step toward the door he blocked the way. You did call her a Jew, he said mildly, looking straight at the oldest man. Surely you can understand how upsetting that might be. She meant no disrespect.
The man gave him a slight bow of the head. She would do well to control her anger a little better, he said coldly.
She would, Russell agreed. Have a good evening, he added, and turned toward the door.
Outside he found Effi shaking with laughter, though whether from humor or hysteria he wasnt quite sure. He put an arm around her shoulder and waited for the shaking to stop. Lets go home.
Lets, she agreed.
They crossed the busy avenue and headed up one of the side streets.
Sometimes I wish I was a Jew, she said. If the Nazis hate them that much, they must be real human beings.
Russell grunted his acquiescence. I heard a joke the other day, he said. Hitler goes rowing on the Wannsee, but hes not very good at it, and manages to overturn the boat. A boy in a passing boat manages to haul him out and save him from drowning. Hitler, as you can imagine, is overcome with gratitude and promises the boy whatever he wants. The boy thinks for a moment, and asks for a state funeral. Hitler says, Youre a bit young for that, arent you? The boy says, Oh, mein Fuhrer, when I tell my dad Ive saved you from drowning hes going to kill me!
Effi started laughing again, and he did too. For what seemed like minutes they stood on the sidewalk, embracing and shaking with mirth.
NEXT AFTERNOON THOMAS AND JOACHIM were waiting in the usual place, sitting on a low wall with cartons of half-consumed frankfurters and kartoffelsalad between them. Russell bought the same for himself and Paul.
Once inside the Plumpe they headed for their usual spot, opposite the edge of the penalty area, halfway up the terrace on the western side. As their two sons read each others magazines, Russell and Thomas sat themselves down on the concrete step and chatted. Hows business? Russell asked.