And would he risk losing his son to tell it? No, he wouldn't.
And was he ashamed of his silence? Yes, he was.
He levered himself off the wall and walked slowly on toward his own courtyard and block. As he reached the entrance he remembered the empty car. It was gone.
Inside, Frau Heidegger seemed, as usual, to be waiting for him. What was all that noise about? she asked, then noticed his face. Herr Russell, you look like youve seen a ghost!
The SA came for a couple of homosexuals in the next block, he said. There seemed no point in giving her the gory details.
Oh, she said, shaking her head in involuntary denial. I know the men you mean. They . . . well . . . its not our business, is it? She ducked back inside her door and re-emerged with an unstamped envelope. This came for you. A plainclothes policeman delivered it this morning.
He opened it. The Gestapo wished to see him. Within three days.
They just want a chat, he reassured her. Something to do with my accreditation, I expect.
Ah, she said, sounding less than completely convinced.
Russell shared her misgivings. As he climbed the stairs, he told himself there was nothing to worry about. Theyd read his letter to the Soviets, and just wanted to clarify his intentions. If it was anything else, they wouldn't be delivering invitations and letting him pick the daytheyd be throwing him out of the window.
A frisson of fear shot across his chest, and his legs felt strangely unsteady. Suddenly the photographic book seemed like a very bad idea.
Ha ho bloody he, he muttered to himself.
The Knauer Boy
THE GESTAPOS INVITATION TO dance was still on Russells desk when he got up the following morning. One Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist was expecting to see John Russell in Room 48, 102 Wilhelmstrasse, within the next 72 hours. No explanation was offered.
It wasnt actually the Gestapo102 Wilhelmstrasse was the head-quarters of the Party intelligence organization, the Sicherheitsdienst. Though both were run by Reinhard Heydrich with a cheery disregard for legal niceties, the SD had a reputation for more sophisticated thuggerysame pain, cleaner floors.
He read the letter through again, looking for a more sinister message between the lines, and decided there was none. Shchepkin had said theyd want to talk to him, and they did. It was as simple as that. A friendly warning was waiting in Room 48, and nothing more. Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist would turn out to be a Hertha supporter, and they would chat about what had gone wrong this season.
Still, Russell thought as he shaved, there was no reason to hurry down there. He couldn't afford to miss the new Chancellery opening at noon, and there was no telling how long the various ceremonies would take. Tomorrow would do. Or even Wednesday.
Back in his room, he picked up the Leica and took a few imaginary photos. It had no flash, but Zembski had said the lens was good enough for indoor shooting as long as he held the camera steady. And he could always ask the Fuhrer for the loan of a shoulder.
Cheered by this thoughtfeeling, in fact, unreasonably buoyant for someone with an appointment at 102 Wilhelmstrassehe headed downstairs and out into the gray January morning. As if in response to his mood, a tram glided to a halt at the stop on Friedrichstrasse just as he reached it. Ten minutes later he was ensconced in a Cafe Kranzler window seat, enjoying a first sip of his breakfast coffee as he examined the morning papers.
Foreign Minister Ribbentrop had been talking to the visiting Polish leader, Colonel Becknow there were two men who deserved each other. The new battle cruiser Scharnhorst had been commissioned at Wilhelmshaven, complete with nine eleven-inch guns, two catapults, and three planes. The new captains main claim to fame was his shelling of a Spanish seaside town in 1937, while commanding the pocket battleship Admiral Scheer. On the home front, Pastor Martin Niemollers brother Wilhelm had delivered a sermon attacking government policy toward the churches. He had read a list from the pulpit of all those churchmenincluding his brothercurrently enjoying the states hospitality. The newspaper was not sure whether this constituted a crime: It has recently been established in certain cases, the editor wrote, that to read the names of persons in custody may itself be an offense.
On a more positive note, the French were demonstrating their usual sound sense of priorities. Parisian cinemas had been closed for a week in protest against a new tax on receipts, but a compromise had now been agreed: The taxes would remain in force, but would not be collected.
Russell smiled and looked out of the window, just in time to see two young women walk by, their faces shining with pleasure over some shared secret. The sun was struggling to emerge. Hitler had probably ordered it for noon; a few shafts of light would show off the medieval perfection of his new castle. Russell wondered how far Speer and his mentor had gone. Would it be the usual Greco-Roman monstrosity, or something more ambitious? A Parthenon decked out in runes, perhaps.
Another coffee brought the time to 11:45. He walked to the top of Wilhelmstrasse, and headed down past the Hotel Adlon and serried government buildings to the new Chancellery. After showing his journalists pass and invitation to a security guard, Russell took a photo of the crowd already gathering behind the cordon. The security guard glared at him, but did nothing else.
Russell joined the knot of privileged journalists and photographers already gathered around the entrance, almost all of whom he recognized. Somewhat to his surprise, Tyler McKinley was among them. My editor was keen, the young American said resentfully, as if nothing else could have persuaded him to bless Hitlers new building with his presence. Russell gave him an oh yeah? look and walked over to Jack Slaney, one of the longer-serving American correspondents. Russell had been in Slaneys office when the latters invitation had arrived, complete with an unsolicitedand presumably accidentalextra. Slaney had been good enough to pass it on: He had been a freelance himself in the dim distant past, and knew what this sort of exclusive could be worth.
A one-man band, he muttered, looking at Russells camera.
I prefer to think of myself as a Renaissance man, Russell told him, just as the doors swung open.
The fifty or so journalists surged into the lobby, where a shiny-looking toady from the Propaganda Ministry was waiting for them. There would be a short tour of the new building, he announced, during which photographs could be taken. The ceremonial opening would take place in the Great Hall at precisely 1:00 PM, and would be followed by a workers lunch for the thousands of people who had worked on the project.
There might be some meat, then, one American journalist muttered.
The toady led them back outside, and around the corner into Vosstrasse. Huge square columns framed the double-gated main entrance, which led into a large court of honor. Russell hung back to take a couple of photos before following his colleagues up a flight of steps to the reception hall. From there, bronze eagles clutching swastikas guarded fifteen-foot doors to a bigger hall clad in gray and gold tiles. The Fuhrer was unavailable, so Russell used Slaneys shoulder to steady the Leica.
More steps led to a circular chamber, another door into a gallery lined with crimson marble pillars. This, their guide told them, was, at 146 meters, twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles. And my mother told me size didn't matter, one journalist lamented in English. I expect your father had a whopper, another said, provoking an outburst of laughter. The ministry toady stamped his foot on the marble floor, and then took a quick look down to make sure he hadn't damaged it.