What about the concentration camps? Russell asked.
They just think of them as German prisons. A bit harsh, maybe, but lots of Americans think our prisons should be harsher. He shrugged and took a gulp of beer.
The second reason? Russell prompted.
Oh, thats easy. A lot of Americans just dont like Jews. They think theyre getting their comeuppance. If they had any idea just how harsh that comeuppance some of them might, might, have second thoughts, but they dont.
I guess thats down to us.
Us and our editors, Slaney said. Weve told the story often enough. People just dont want to hear it. And if you keep on and on about it they just turn off.
Europes far away, Manning said.
And getting farther, Slaney added. Jesus, lets think about something pleasant for a change. He turned to Russell. John, Im organizing a poker night for next Tuesday. How about it?
THE FOURSOME EMERGED INTO the daylight soon after 3:00, and went their separate waysPeyton to his mistress, Slaney and Manning to write their copy for the morning editions. Russell, walking south down Wilhelmstrasse, made the impulsive decision to drop in on Sturmbannfuhrer Kleist while he was still in the neighborhood. A small voice in his head protested that the Sicherheitsdienst was best encountered stone-cold sober, but it was promptly drowned out by a louder one insisting that there was nothing to be afraid of. The meeting was just a formality. So why not get it over with?
The fresh-faced blond receptionist seemed pleased enough to see him, gesturing him through to an anteroom with the sort of friendly smile that could soften up any man. Sunk into one of the leather chairs, Russell found himself staring at the latest product of the Propaganda Ministrys poster artists: Hitler complete with visionary stare and catchy sloganEIN VOLK, EIN REICH, EIN FUHRER. On the opposite wall a more colorful poster showed apple-cheeked youth frolicking in the Alps. That was the thing about these people, he thought: They never surprised you.
The minutes dragged by; the later pints of beer pressed ever-harder for release. He went back out to the receptionist, who pointed him in the direction of a toilet with the same sunny smile. The toilet was spotless and smelled as if it had just been hosed down with Alpine flowers. One of the cubicles was occupied, and Russell imagined Heydrich sitting with his breeches round his ankles, reading something Jewish.
Back in the ante-room he found company. A man in his sixties, smartly dressed. They exchanged nods, but nothing more. The man shifted nervously in his seat, causing the leather to squeak. Hitler stared at them both.
After about twenty minutes the sound of clicking heels seeped into the silence, and another young blonde appeared in the doorway. Herr John Russell? she enquired. Follow me, please.
They went down one long corridor, up some steps, down another corridor. All Russell could hear was the rhythmic click of the blondes shoes. No sounds escaped through the numerous doors they passed, no talk, no laughter, no typewriters. There was no sense that the building was empty, though, more a feeling of intense concentration, as if everyone was thinking fit to burst. Which, Russell realized, was absurd. Maybe the SD had a half-term break, like British schools.
Through the window on a second flight of stairs he caught a glimpse of a large lawn and the huge swastika flying over Hitlers new home. At the end of the next corridor the heels swung right through an open doorway.
Room 48 was not so much a room as a suite. The secretary led him through her high-ceilinged anteroom, opened the inner door, and ushered him in.
STURMBANNFUHRER GOTTFRIED KLEISTas the nameboard on the desk announcedlooked up, gestured him to the leather-bound seat on the near side of his leather-bound desk, and carried on writing. He was a stout man in denial, his black uniform just a little too tight for what it had to contain. He had a florid face, thinning hair and rather prominent red lips. He did have blue eyes, though, and his handwriting was exquisite. Russell watched the fountain pen scrape across the page, forming elegant whorls and loops from the dark green ink.
After what seemed like several minutes, Kleist carefully replaced the pen in its holder, almost daintily blotted his work and, after one last admiring look, moved it to the right hand side of his desk. From the left he picked up a folder, opened it, and raised his eyes to Russells. John Russell, he said. It wasnt a question.
You asked to see me, Russell said, with as much bonhomie as he could muster.
The Sturmbannfuhrer ran a hand through his hair, straightening a few rebellious wisps with his fingers. You are an English national.
With resident status in the Reich.
Yes, yes. I know. And a current journalistic accreditation.
Yes.
Could I see it please?
Russell removed it from his inside jacket pocket and passed it over.
Kleist noticed the invitation card. Ah, the opening, he said. A success, I assume. Were you impressed?
Very much so. The building is a credit to the Fuhrer.
Kleist looked sharply at Russell, as if doubtful of his sincerity.
So much modern architecture seems insubstantial, Russell added.
Indeed, Kleist agreed, handing back the press pass. Apparently satisfied, he sat back in his seat, both hands grasping the edge of his desk. Now, it has come to our attention that the Soviet newspaper Pravda has commissioned you to write a series of articles about the Fatherland. He paused for a moment, as if daring Russell to ask how it had come to their attention. This was at your suggestion, I believe.
It was.
Why did you suggest these articles, Mr. Russell?
Russell shrugged. Several reasons. All freelance journalists are always looking to place stories with whoever will buy them. And it occurred to me that the Soviets might be interested in a fresh look at National Socialist Germany, one that concentrates on what the two societies have in common, rather than what divides them. What I
Kleist stopped him with a raised hand. Why did you think this would interest the Soviets?
Russell took his time. Soviet propaganda has generally been very hostile toward the Reich, he began. And by taking this course, they have backed themselves into a corner. Theres no doubt that Germany is the rising power in Europe, and the Sovietslike everyone elsewill sooner or later have to deal with that reality. But as things stand at the moment, their own people would not understand a more ... a more accommodating attitude toward the Reich. The articles I propose would prepare the ground, so to speak. They would help in restoring the Soviet governments freedom of movement, allow them to act in concert with the Reich if and when the two states interests coincide.
Kleist looked thoughtful.
And I see such articles as a contribution to peace, Russell went on, hoping he wasnt over-egging the pudding. I fought in the last war, and I have no desire to see another. If nations and governments understand each other, theres less chance well all blunder into one.
Kleist smiled. I dont think theres much chance of the Fuhrer blundering into anything, he said. But I take your point. And we have no objection to your articles, subject to certain conditions. These are sensitive subjectsIm sure youd agree. And while you are English, you are also living in the Reich under our protection. Your views would not be seen as official views, but they would be seen as views we are prepared to tolerate. You understand me? Whatever you write could be construed as having our blessing.
Russell felt anxious for the first time. Yes. . . . he said hesitantly.
So, you see, it follows that we cannot permit you to write anything that we violently disagree with. Your articles will have to be pre-submitted for our approval. I am sure, he added, that this will only be a formality.