Its good, Thomas said, unbuttoning his overcoat. Hed been running the family paper business since his and Ilses father had died a few years earlier. Its getting harder to find experienced staff, but other than that. . . . He shrugged. Theres no lack of orders. How about you?
Not too bad. Ive got the opening of the new Chancellery tomorrow, and there should be a decent piece in thatthe Americans like that sort of thing.
Well thats good. How about Danzig? Did you get anything there?
Not really. Russell explained about the stamp wars.
Thomas rolled his eyes in frustration. Like children, he muttered. Speaking of which, Joachims been called up for his arbeitsdienst.
When?
The beginning of March.
Russell looked up at Joachim, engrossed in his magazine. Ah, he said, glad that Paul was still six years away from the year of drilling, draining swamps, and digging roads which the Nazis imposed on all seventeen-year-old boys. How does he feel about it?
Oh, he cant wait, Thomas said, glancing affectionately up at his son. I suppose it cant do him any harm. Unlike whatll probably follow.
Russell knew what he meant. When theyd first become friends over ten years ago, he and Thomas had talked a lot about their experiences in the war. Both had friends whod survived the war in body, yet never recovered their peace of mind. And both knew that they themselves had been changed in ways that they would never fully understand. And that they had been the lucky ones.
Happy days, Russell murmured, and then laughed. We had a run-in with the SS last night, he said, and told Thomas the story.
He wasnt as amused as Russell expected. Shell go too far one of these days. The fragebogens just a piece of paper, after all. One day theyll take her in, tear it up, and the next thing you know her parents will be getting a bill for her burial. He shook his head. Being right doesnt count anymore.
I know, Russell said. She knows. But she does it so well.
A chorus of catcalls erupted around them: Viktoria Berlin were on their way out. As the two men got to their feet, Hertha emerged to a more affectionate welcome. Casting his eyes over the towering grandstand and the high crowded terraces behind each goal, Russell felt the usual surge of excitement. Glancing to his left, he saw that Pauls eyes mirrored his own.
The first half was all Hertha, but Viktoria scored the only goal on a breakaway just before the interval. Joachim seethed with indignation, while Paul yo-yoed between hope and anxiety. Thomas smoked two cigarettes.
The second half followed the same pattern, and there were only ten minutes left when Herthas inside-left was tripped in the penalty area. He took the penalty himself. The ball hit both posts before going in, leaving the crowd in hysterics. A minute from time, with evening falling and the light abruptly fading, Herthas center-forward raced onto a long bouncing ball and volleyed it home from almost thirty yards. The Viktoria goalkeeper hadn't moved. As the stadium exploded with joy he just stood there, making angry gestures at his teammates, the referee, the rest of the world.
Paul was ecstatic. Eyes shining, he joined in the chant now echoing round the arena: Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC! Ha! Ho! He! Hertha BSC!
For an eleven-year-old, Russell thought fondly, this was as good as it got.
IT WAS DARK BY the time he dropped Paul off. He took a 76 back into town, ate supper at a beer restaurant just off the Potsdamerplatz, and walked the last kilometer home. Reaching his street, he noticed what looked like the same empty car parked across from his apartment block. He was on his way to investigate it when he heard the scream.
It was no ordinary scream. It was loud and lingering, and it somehow managed to encompass surprise, terror, and appalling pain. For a brief instant, Russell was back in the trenches, listening to someone whod just lost a limb to a shell.
It came from further down the street.
He hesitated, but only long enough for his brain to register that hesitation as an essential corollary of living in Nazi Germany. All too often, screams meant officialdom, and experience suggested that officialdom was best avoided at such moments.
Still, investigating one seemed a legitimate practice, even in Nazi Germany. Not all crimes were committed by the state or its supporters. Russell walked resolutely on past the courtyard which his block shared with its neighbor, telling himself that valor was the better part of discretion.
The source of the disturbance was the further of the two blocks off the next courtyard. A couple of men were hovering in the entrance, obviously uncertain what to do. They eyed Russell nervously, and looked at each other when he asked them what was going on. Both were in their forties, and an obvious facial similarity suggested brothers.
In the courtyard beyond, an open-backed truck was parked with its engine running, and a single man in an SA uniform was walking toward them.
Keep moving, he told them, without any real conviction. His breath stank of beer.
But we live here, one of the two men said.
Just wait there, then, the stormtrooper said, looking up at the illuminated windows on the third floor. You might get some free entertainment, he added over his shoulder as he walked back toward the truck.
Seconds later, another bloodcurdling scream reverberated round the courtyard.
What in Gods name . . . ? Russell began. Who lives up there? he asked the two men.
Two actors, the older of the two replied.
Warmer bruder, the other added, hot brothers, the current slang for homosexuals. Theyve been brazen as hell. Someone must have denounced them. He didn't sound too upset about it.
No other lights were showing in either block, but Russell could almost feel the silent audience watching from behind the tiers of darkened windows. He thought about calling the police, but knew there was no point.
One of the illuminated windows was suddenly flung open, and a man appeared silhouetted against the opening, looking out and down. A crying, whimpering sound was now audible, and just as the man disappeared another scream split the night, even more piercing than the last. There was a flurry of movement inside the lighted room, and suddenly a naked body was flying out through the window, dropping, screaming, hitting the floor of the courtyard with a sickening, silencing thud. The body twitched once and lay still, as desperate, sobbing pleas of no, please, no leaked out of the open window. Another flurry, another naked body, this one twisting in flight like an Olympic diver whod mistaken concrete for water. There was no twitch this time, no last-second adjustment to death.
The two lay a couple of feet apart, in the thin pool of light thrown by the blocks entrance lamp. One man was face down, the other face up, with only a glistening mess where his genitals had been.
With a shock, Russell recognized the mans face. Hed seen himtalked to him evenat one of Effis theatrical gatherings. He had no memory of the mans name, but hed been nice enough. With a passion for Hollywood movies, Russell remembered. Katherine Hepburn in particular.
Shows over, the SA man was saying loudly. You saw it. They must have cut each others pricks off before they jumped. He laughed. You can go in now, he added.
Russells two companions looked like they were in shock. One started to say something, but no sound emerged, and the other just gave him a gentle push on the shoulder. They walked toward their door, giving a wide birth to the two corpses.
And you? the SA man shouted at Russell.
I was just passing, he said automatically.
Then keep moving, the SA man ordered.
Russell obediently turned and walked away, his eyes still full of the mutilated bodies. The bile in his stomach wouldn't stay down. Supporting himself against a lamppost he retched his supper into the gutter, then leaned against a wall, brain swirling with the usual useless rage. Another crime that would never be punished, another story that begged to be told.