He decided it wasnt, but later that night, halfway down an empty street on their way home from the theater, he asked it anyway.
To make a living? she answered sarcastically.
But you dont. . . . he said, and stopped himself. But not soon enough.
Lots of people think that because my family is rich, Im rich, she said coldly. I took the flat when they offered it. Ten years ago. And I havent taken anything since.
I know.
Then what. . . .
He sighed. Its just so sordid. I hate the idea of you playing in something . . . in playing a part that goes against everything you believe.
That just makes it more of a challenge.
Yes, but the better you do it, the more convincing you are, the more women will think they have to accept all this nonsense.
She stopped in her tracks. Are we talking about my work or yours? she asked. How about your paean to Strength Through Joy cruises? Or your car for every German worker piece. Youve hardly been cutting the ground from under their feet.
He bit back the surge of anger. She was right.
They both were.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, HE went to the Plumpe. Paul had asked him for a program, and with Effi visiting her family that seemed a good enough reason for going. He had Thomas and Joachim for company, but he missed Paul, and the game itself was direa dull 1-1 draw with Berliner SV. Thomas was subduedlike Frau Heidegger and 75 million other Germans hed noticed the telltale flurry of government antagonism toward the Czechs. Sandwiched between SV supporters on the southbound U-bahn they arranged to have lunch on the following Thursday.
Back at the apartment he found a courier delivery waiting for him: a copy of the previous days Pravda, complete with his first article. His Russian wasnt that good, but as far as he could tell they hadn't altered anything. Approved by the SD, approved by the NKVD, he thought out loud. I should have been a diplomat. More gratifying still was the accompanying bank draft in Reichsmarks.
There was also the promised list of suggestions for future articles. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentencewho thought up this stuff?spelled Cracow. Russell groaned. Two 16-hour train journeys, just for a chat with Shchepkin. At least, he hoped it was just for a chat.
Zygmunts Chapel
THIS IS IT, McKinley said, with the sort of enthusiasm others reserved for stumbling across El Dorado. The object of his excitement was a short cul-de-sac of decaying tenement blocks wedged between railway arches, small industrial workshops, and the Neukollner Schiffahrtkanal. One forlorn streetlight threw a faint yellow glow over glistening brickwork and rusty iron. It looked, Russell thought, like the sort of place a particularly sentimental German communist would come to die.
They had been looking for it for almost an hour, ever since playing hide-and-seek with their probably imaginary Gestapo tail in the Neukolln branch of the KaDeWe department store. The object of their quest had, according to McKinley, told them to make sure they were not followed, and he had done his best to oblige, leading Russell into the store by the main entrance and out through the kitchens, pursued only by the shouts of an enraged chef. They had then headed east on foot, turning this way and that down a succession of rapidly darkening and profoundly unwelcoming streets. Russell had expected streams of workers returning home, but they had only come across a few, and McKinleys requests for navigational assistance had been met with either guarded suspicion or outright hostility. Russell had wondered whether the young American could feel the money burning a hole in his pocket. There were lights behind the curtains of the residential streets, but they felt far away.
This street, Schonlanker Strasse, was no exception. The block they were looking for was the last, pushed up against the elevated tracks of what was probably a freight line. As they reached the entrance another source of light came into viewthe red glow of a signal hanging in the darkness.
The limp swastika hanging over the entrance looked like it hadn't been washed since 1933. Entering the dimly lit hall, they found the concierges door. McKinley tried two taps with the door-knockertoo softly, Russell thought, but the door swung open almost immediately. A middle-aged woman with a rather striking face ushered them inside and quickly closed the door behind them.
Who is this? she asked McKinley with an angry gesture toward Russell. She had a thick Rhenish accent, which explained why the American had so much trouble understanding her.
Hes a friend. He speaks better German than I do, McKinley explained, rather in the manner of someone reassuring a foolish child.
She gave Russell another look, thought for a moment, then shrugged. Come through, she said shortly.
The living room was clean but almost bare. There were no comfortable chairs, only a couple of stools beside a small table and what looked like homemade cushions on the floor. A tattered but once-expensive rug occupied the center of the wooden floor. A girl of around five or six was sitting on it, leaning forward over a drawing she was working on. She didn't look up when they entered.
Thats Marietta, the woman said. She gets very absorbed in what shes doing, she added, as if she needed to explain the childs lack of reaction.
Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jurissen. She was younger than hed first thoughtaround 35, probablybut she looked both exhausted and malnourished. Only the eyes, a penetrating gray, seemed full of energy.
Please take the chairs, she said, but McKinley insisted that she take one. He remained standing, his lanky bulk seeming somewhat incongruous in the center of the room. Apparently realizing as much, he retreated to a wall.
Have you brought the money? Frau Jurissen asked, almost apologetically. This was not a woman who was used to poverty, Russell thought. This is the only work I can do and look after her all day.
McKinley produced his wallet, and counted what looked like several hundred Reichsmarks into her hand. She looked at the pile for a moment, and then abruptly folded the notes over, and placed them in the pocket of her housecoat. So, where shall I begin? she asked.
McKinley wasted no time. You said in your letter that you could not keep silent when childrens lives were at stake, he said, pronouncing each word with the utmost care. What made you think they were?
She placed her hands on the table, one covering the other. I couldn't believe it at first, she said, then paused to get her thoughts in order. I worked for the Brandenburg health ministry for over ten years. In the medical supplies department. I visited hospitals and asylums on a regular basis, checking inventories, anticipating demandsyou understand?
McKinley nodded.
After the Nazi takeover most of the women in my department were encouraged to resign, but my husband was killed in an accident a few weeks after I had Marietta, and they knew I was the only bread-winner in the family. They wanted me to find another husband, of course, but until that happened . . . well, I was good at my job, so they had no real excuse to fire me. She looked up. Im sorry. You dont need to know all this. She looked across at her daughter, who had still shown no sign of recognition that anyone else was in the room. I suppose I knew from the start that she wasnt, well, ordinary, but I told myself she was just very shy, very self-absorbed. . . . I mean, some adults are like thatthey hardly notice that anyone else exists. She sighed. But I got to the point where I knew I had to do something, take her to see someone. I knew that might mean shed be sterilized, but . . . well, if she stayed the way she is now, shed never notice whether she had any children or not. Anyway, I took her to a clinic in Potsdam, and they examined her and tested her and said they needed to keep her under observation for a few weeks. I didn't want to leave her there, but they told me not be selfish, that Marietta needed professional care if she was ever to come out of her shell.