RUSSELL DIdn't EXPECT TO find many similarities between Tyler McKinley and Albert Wiesner. On the one hand, a boy from a rich family and country with a rewarding job and instant access to a ticket out of Nazi Germany. On the other, a boy without work or prospects of any kind, whose next forwarding address was likely to be Sachsenhausen. Russell, however, soon found himself comparing the two young men. The characters and personalities of both of them had been formed in successful families and, it seemed, in reaction to powerful fathers. Both seemed blessed with enough youthful naivete to render them irritating and likable in turn.
Frau Wiesner produced her son at the end of Fridays lesson. For his mothers and sisters sake the boy made a token effort to mask his sullen resentment at this unnecessary intrusion on his time, but once out of the door he swiftly abandoned any pretence of amiability.
Lets get some coffee, Russell said.
No cafes will serve us, was Alberts reply.
Well, then, lets go for a walk in the park.
Albert said nothing, but kept pace at Russells side as they strolled down Greifswaldstrasse toward the northern entrance of the Friedrichshain, the park which gave the whole district its name. Once inside the main gates Russell led them past the Marchenbrunnen, a series of artificial waterfalls surrounded by sculptured characters from fairytales. He had brought Paul to see it several years ago, when Hansel and Gretelthe figures in the foregroundcould still conjure up nighttime terrors of wicked witches, as Ilse had bitterly complained on the following day.
Albert had a more topical agenda in mind. The witch must have been Jewish, he said.
If she wasnt then, she will be now, Russell agreed.
They walked on into the park, down a wide path beneath the leafless trees. Albert seemed unconcerned by the silence between them, and made a point of catching the eyes of those walking in the opposite direction.
Russell had mentally rehearsed a few lines of adult wisdom on the U-bahn, but theyd all sounded ridiculous. Your mother wanted me to talk to you, he said at last. But I have no idea what to say. You and your family are in a terrible situation. And, well, I guess shes frightened that youll just make things worse for yourself.
And them.
Yes, and them.
I do realize that.
Yes. . . . This is a waste of time, Russell thought. They were approaching one of the parks outdoor cafes. Lets have a coffee here, he said.
They wont serve me.
Just take a seat. Ill get them. He walked up to the kiosk window and looked at the cakes. They had mohrenkopfen, balls of sponge with custard centers, chocolate coats, and whipped cream hats. Two of them and two coffees, he told the middle-aged man behind the counter.
The man was staring at Albert. Hes a Jew, he said finally, as if reaching the end of an exhaustive mental process. We dont serve Jews.
Hes English, Russell said. As am I. He showed the man his Ministry of Propaganda accreditation.
He looks Jewish, the man said, still staring at Albert, who was now staring back. Why dont you just take out your circumcised prick and wave it at him, Russell thought sourly. He may be Jewish for all I know, Russell told the man, but theres no law against serving English Jews.
There isnt?
No, there isnt.
The man just stared at him.
Do you need to hear it from a policeman?
Not if you say so. He gave Albert one final glare and concentrated on pouring out the coffee.
God help us, Russell thought. He could understand Alberts reaction, no matter how counterproductive it was. But this manwhat was he so annoyed about? There were no SS men lounging at his tables, no ordinary citizens on the brink of racial apoplexy. Why did he care so much that a Jew was sitting at one of his rusty tables? Did he really think Jewish germs would rub off on his cups and saucers?
The coffee was spilled in the saucers, but it didn't seem worth complaining. He carried them back to the table, where Albert was now slouched in his chair, legs splayed out in defiance. Russell resisted the temptation to say sit up in your chair and handed him a mohrenkopf. His eyes lit up.
They concentrated on eating for a few minutes.
Do you really think theres any chance well get visas? Albert asked eventually, allowing the merest hint of hope to mar his cynicism.
Yes, Russell said, with more conviction than he felt. It may take a while, but why not? The Nazis dont want you, so why shouldn't they let you go?
Because theyre even more interested in hurting us?
Russell considered that. It had, unfortunately, the ring of truth. The way I see it, he said, you dont have many options. You can fight back and most likely end up in a camp. Or dead. Or you can try and work their system.
Albert gave him a pitying look. There are half a million of us, he said. At the current rate itll take seven years for us all to get visas.
Russell had no answer.
And how long before were at war? Albert persisted.
Who knows. . . .
A year at most. And thatll put a stop to emigration. What do you think theyll do with us then? They wont let us work for a living now, and that wont change. Theyll either leave us to starve or put us in work campsslave labor. Some of my friends think theyll just kill us. And they may be right. Whos going to stop them?
He could add Albert to the list of people hed underestimated, Russell thought.
My fathers Iron Cross was First Class, Albert said. Unlike our beloved Fuhrers.
Russell stared out at the winter trees, and the roof of the old Krankenhaus Hospital rising above them to the south. If youre rightif your friends are rightthen all the more reason not to jeopardize your chancesyour familys chancesof getting out.
I know that, Albert said. But what about the others? One familys success is another familys failure.
Russell had no answer to that either.
But thanks for the coffee and cake, Albert said.
LYING IN BED UNABLE to sleep, Russell thought about Papa Wiesners Iron Cross First Class. It wasnt a medal given to manyhe must have done something pretty special. He supposed he should have realized that a Jew of Wiesners age would have fought in the war, but it hadn't occurred to him. Goebbelss propaganda was obviously working.
He wondered which front Wiesner had served on. He wondered, as he often did with Germans of his own age, whether theyd been facing him across those hundred yards of churned-up meadow near Merville. He sometimes wondered whether Frau Heideggers repeated accusation that he might have shot her husband was simply her way of warding off the possibility that he really had.
He had once thought that he was over the war, that time and circumstance had turned the horror into anger, the anger into politics, and the politics into cynicism, leaving only the abiding belief that people in authority tended, by and large, to be incompetent, uncaring liars. The war, by this accounting, had been the latest demonstration of a depressingly eternal truth. Nothing more.
Hed been fooling himself. All those whod been in that particular place at that particular time had been indelibly marked by the experience, and he was no exception. You never shook it off completelywhatever it was it had left you with, whether nerves in tatters, an endless rage, or a joy-sapping cynicism. And the memories never seemed to fade. That sudden waft of decomposing flesh, the rats eyes reflected in the shell-burst, the sight of ones own rotting feet. The unnerving beauty of a flare cracking the night sky open. Being splashed with someone elses brain, slapped in the face by death.
Jimmy Sewell was his name. After helping carry what was left of him back to the medical station, Russell had somehow ended up with the letter he had just written to his girlfriend. Things were looking up, Sewell had told her, now that the Yanks were arriving in force. It had been late June or early July, 1918. One of a string of sunny days in northern France.