Wednesday morning, he called in at the embassy on his way to the Wiesners. The moment he saw Unsworths face he knew what had happened. Hes dead, isnt he?
The official line is that he hanged himself, Unsworth said. Im sorry.
Russell sat down. A wave of sadnessof utterly useless sadnessseemed to wash over him. When? he asked. Has the family been told?
Unsworth shrugged. We received this note from the Foreign Ministry this morning. He passed it over. A reply to our representations on Friday.
The message comprised one sentence: In response to your enquiries of 18 February, we regret to inform you that the prisoner Wiesner has taken his own life, presumably out of guilt for his crime.
Wiesner had been dead within two days of his visit, Russell thought. Beaten to death, most probably. A blessed release, perhaps. But not for his family.
We assume the family has been informed, Unsworth was saying.
Why? Russell asked, handing back the note. Because its the decent thing to do?
Unsworth nodded, as if taking the point.
What about the visa situation? Russell wanted to know. Theres nothing to keep them here now. And surely. . . .
Im told the decisions on the next batch are being taken tomorrow afternoon. If you come back Friday morning I hope Ill have some good news for you.
Russell walked down the stairs and out past the line of visa-seekers on Unter den Linden. Once behind the Hanomags steering wheel he just sat there, staring down toward the Brandenburg Gate and the distant trees of the Tiergarten.
Eventually, almost somnambulantly, he put the car into gear and moved off, circling Pariserplatz and heading back up Unter den Linden toward Alexanderplatz and Neue Konigstrasse. What did you say to someone whose husband or father has just been murdered for the sin of being born to a particular race? What could you say? All around him the people of Berlin were going about their usual business, walking and driving and shopping and talking, laughing at jokes and smiling in friendship. If theyd heard of Sachsenhausen, they no doubt imagined neat rows of barracks, and some well-merited hard labor for the criminals and perverts residing there at the states pleasure. They hadn't seen a man they knew and liked twisted and torn out of human shape for the pleasure of others.
He couldn't even tell the story, not without Jens suffering for it. And even if he could, he had no evidence to back up his suppositions. The Nazis would claim that a crime like Wiesners was bound to provoke an angry reaction from his Aryan guards, and that the wretched Jew had simply taken the easy way out when he received a few well-deserved bruises. What, they would say, was the problem? Everyone had behaved in a racially appropriate manner, and the world had one less Jew to worry about.
On the Wiesners street he sat in the car, putting off the moment of truth. There was another car parked on the other side of the road, its windows open, with two bored-looking men smoking in the front seat. They looked like Kripo, Russell thought, and they were probably on loan to the Gestapo, which was notorious for believing itself above the more mundane aspects of police work.
Well, there was no law against teaching Jewish children English. He got out, walked up the familiar steps, rapped on the familiar door. An unfamiliar face appeared in the opening. A rather attractive woman, with a mass of curly brown hair and suspicious eyes. In her late thirties, Russell guessed.
He introduced himself, and her face changed. Come in, she said. Youve heard? she added.
About Dr. Wiesners death? Yes. Half an hour ago, at the British Embassy.
As he spoke, Marthe Wiesner emerged from the other room, closing the door behind her. Herr Russell. . . . she began.
I cant tell you how sorry I am to hear about your father, he said. There were two broken table lamps on the wooden chest, he noticed, and the curtain rail was hanging at an awkward angle.
Thank you, she said stiffly. She seemed calmalmost overly sobut for the moment at least the light in her eyes had gone out. This is Sarah Grostein, she said, introducing the other woman. Shes an old friend of the family. Mother is . . . well, you can imagine. The shock was terrible. For all of us, of course. Mother and Ruth are sleeping at the moment.
Please give her my condolences, Russell said, the hollow words tripping off his tongue like. . . . He wondered whether to leave the safety deposit box key with Marthe, especially in the presence of a stranger. He decided against. I need to talk to your mother, he said. Not now, of course, he added quickly. Ill come at the usual time on Friday.
Marthe nodded, just as the sound of wailing erupted in the other room. A few second later Eva Wiesner called her elder daughters name. I must go. . . .
Of course. He waited until the door had closed before asking Sarah Grostein when the family had heard of Felix Wiesners death.
Saturday evening, she said. I wasnt here of course, but the police behaved abominably. I can understand why Albert lost his head.
Russells heart sunk. What did he do?
Oh, dont you know? He attacked the Gestapo bastard, hit him with one of these table lamps. The mans in the hospital. They said he might die, but Marthe says it didn't look that bad. I think they were just trying to scare Eva.
Where have they taken Albert? he asked. The wailing was quieter, but just as insistent.
She gave a bitter laugh. They havent. He got away. Pushed the other bastard over the sofa and ran for it. He got out the backtheres a maze of alleys out thereand the conscious one knew better than to follow him. He wouldn't have found Albert, and he knew damn well he might not come out again.
Wheres Albert now?
No one knows, she said, leaving Russell with the distinct impression that she was lying. They came back yesterday, she went on. Shouted at Eva to tell them where he was, which she couldn't have told them if shed wanted to. But they didn't arrest her. Maybe they realized that there was no one else to look after the girls, that theyd be up to their eyes in paperwork if they tried to send them away somewhere.
Maybe, Russell agreed. He thought it more likely that the British expression of interest in Wiesners fate had kept the Gestapo in check. Can you pass on a message to Frau Wiesner? Tell her. . . . He paused. I was going to say that it looks like the children will get British visas in the next week or so, but it doesnt seem as though Albert will have any use for his. If he goes to the Germans for an exit visa, theyll just arrest him. Still, the girls should be able to go. And maybe their mother, too.
She wont leave Albert.
Perhaps he can persuade her.
Perhaps. But the Gestapo are parked outside, which makes arranging meetings rather difficult.
He looked at her, standing there with arms crossed and anger simmering behind her eyes. Are you trying to get out? he asked.
Not at present, she said, in a tone that didn't invite questioning.
Ill get going, he said. Ill be back on Friday morning.
She nodded, opened the door, and closed it behind him. He walked out to the car, ignoring the watching police, and drove it slowly down Neue Konigstrasse toward the city center. He knew there was nothing more he could do, but that knowledge did nothing to diminish the feelings of anger and helplessness which dogged him through the rest of that day and the next. By the time he entered the British Embassy on Friday morning he felt ready to explode, but equally certain that murdering anyone other than Hitler would only make matters worse.
British entry visas for the three Wiesner children were waiting on Unsworths desk, but Unsworth had the decency not to be too pleased with himself. Ive found out why the mothers been refused, he told Russell. The intelligence people have quite a dossier on her. She was a Spartacistyou know what they were? Of course you do. Apparently they grade communists out of ten, and anyone scoring over seven is refused immigration. Eva Wiesners an eight.