WAITING BEHIND ANOTHER CUSTOMER for his Friday morning paper, Russell caught sight of the headline: BARCELONA FALLS. On impulse, he turned away. That was one story he didn't want to read. The Spanish Civil War was over. The good guys had lost. What else was there to say?
As it had gone down so well on his last visit, he bought another ancient Daily Mail at the Alexanderplatz kiosk. This had an article on young English girls collecting stamps, which he knew would interest Ruth and Marthe, and a big piece on the recent loss of the Empire Flying Boat Cavalier, complete with map and diagram, which Paul would love. He saved the best, however, for the very end of the girls lessona report on a tongue-twisting competition on the BBC. Trying to say should such a shapeless sash such shabby stitches show got Ruth giggling so hard she really was in stitches, and Marthe fared little better with the flesh of freshly fried flying fish.
The doctor was not at home, so Russell handed the copy of the latest rules governing Jewish emigration to Frau Wiesner. He had collected them the previous day from the British Passport Control Office. But they ignore their own rules half the time, the young official had told him bitterly. You can count on getting a change of clothes past them, but anything else is as likely to be confiscated as not. If your friends have any other way of getting stuff out, they should use it.
Russell passed on the advice, and watched Frau Wiesners heart visibly sink.
If you need help, ask me, he said, surprising himself. I dont think Id have any trouble shipping stuff to my family in England.
Her eyes glowed. Thank you, she said, and reached up to kiss him on the cheek.
He journeyed home to pack, stopping off in Alexanderplatz for a late lunch. At least he was pleasing some people. He hadn't seen Effi since Sunday and the round of mutual accusations which he had so stupidly instigated. They hadn't had a rowthey had even managed two reasonably friendly conversations on the telephonebut he knew she was angry with him, and his non-availability for the Barbarossa sendoff had made things worse.
Paul didn't seem that much happier with him, despite the promise of a trip the following Sunday to see the cup tie in Dresden. There was something going on, but Paul wasnt prepared to talk about it, at least not on the telephone.
Frau Heidegger was glad to see him, and sorry his imminent train prevented him from joining her for coffee. Up in his apartment, he threw a few spare clothes into a suitcase, checked that he had his notes for the next article, and headed back down. On the next landing he ran into a smiling McKinley.
Everything okay? Russell asked in passing.
Uh-huh. Im just waiting for our friends letter and . . . bingo!
Russell laughed and rattled on down the stairs.
He arrived at the Schlesinger Bahnhof with twenty minutes to spare. The train was already sheltering under the wrought-iron canopy, and he walked down the platform in search of his carriage and seat. As he leaned out the window to watch a train steam in from the east a paper boy thrust an afternoon edition under his nose. The word Barcelona was again prominent, but this time he handed over the pfennigs. As his train gathered speed through Berlins industrial suburbs he read the article from start to finish, in all its sad and predictable detail.
Three years of sacrifice, all for nothing. Three years of towns won, towns lost. Russell had registered the names, but resisted further knowledge. It was too painful. Thousands of young men and women had gone to fight fascism in Spain, just as thousands had gone, like him, to fight for communism twenty years earlier. According to Marx, history repeated itself first as tragedy and then as farce. But no one was laughing. Except perhaps Stalin.
Russell supposed he should be glad that Spain would soon be at peace, but even that was beyond him. He stared out the window at the neat fields of the Spree valley, basking in the orange glow of the setting sun, and felt as though he were being lied to. Seconds later, as if in confirmation, the train thundered through a small town station, its fluttering swastika deep blood-red in that self-same glow, a crowd of small boys in uniform milling on the opposite platform.
THE FOOD IN THE RESTAURANT car proved surprisingly good. The menu had a distinctly Polish flavor, although as far as Russell could see there were few Poles on the train. Most of his fellow-passengers were German males, mainly commercial travelers or soldiers on leave. There was only a sprinkling of couples, though the pair at the next table had enough sexual energy for ten. They could hardly keep their hands off each other while eating, and the young man kept checking his watch, as if willing the train on to Breslau, where the sleeping coaches would be attached.
The couple soon disappeared, probably in search of an empty bathroom. The romance of trains, Russell thought, staring at his own reflection in the window. He remembered the overnight journey to Leningrad with Ilse in 1924, just after theyd met. People had slept in the bathrooms on that train, and anywhere else they could find a space. He and Ilse had had to wait.
Fifteen years. The Soviet Union had come a long way since then, one way or another. Some people came back from visits singing its praises. There was still much to do, of course, but it was the future in embryo, a potential paradise. Other returnees shook their heads in sadness. A dream warped beyond recognition, they said. A nightmare.
Russell guessed the latter was nearer the truth, but sometimes wondered whether that was just his natural pessimism. It had to be a bit of both, but where the balance lay he didn't know.
More to the point, what did Moscow want with him? What they said they wanted? Or something else? Or both? Trelawney-Smythe had been certain they would ask for more, and Kleist had hinted as much. He didn't even know who he was dealing with. Was Shchepkin NKVD or GRU? Or some other acronym he hadn't even heard of? A French correspondent in Berlin had told him that the NKVD was now split between a Georgian faction and the rest, and for all Russell knew the GRU was eaten up by factional rivalry over how much salt they put in the canteen borsht.
And why was he assuming it would be Shchepkin again? The revolution was burning its human fuel at quite a rate these days, and Shchepkin, with his obvious intelligence, seemed highly combustible.
He would have to deal with whoever presented himself. Or herself. But what would he or she want? What could they want? Information about German military strengths and weaknesses? About particular weapons programs? Political intentions? Military plans? He had no informationno access to informationabout any of that. Thank God.
What did he have that they valued? Freedom to move around Germany. Freedom to ask questions without arousing suspicion. Even more so now, with Kleists letter in his possession. Maybe one of their agents had gone missing, and they would ask Russell to find out what had happened to him. Or they might want to use him as courier, carrying stuff to or from their agents. That would explain the meetings outside Germany.
Or they could use him as a conduit. The Soviets knew the Germans would check up on him, and assumed he would be asked for reports on his meetings. And the British too. They would have counted on the British calling him in. They could use him as a human mailbox, with Kleist and Trelawney-Smythe as the sorters.
They might be just making it up as they went along. His unusual situation made him potentially useful, and they were still looking for a way to realize that potential. That would explain the articles and oral reportsa sort of halfway house to prepare him for a truly clandestine life. There was no way of knowing. Russell leaned back in his chair, remembering the remark of a Middlesex Regiment officer in 1918. Intelligence services, the man had said, are prone to looking up their own arses and wondering why its dark.