Zoo Station by David Downing Read Free Book Online

commonsocialism. That should give them both a laugh, he thought. They might seem like enemies, he continued, but clearly they had something important in commonsocialisms determination to serve all the people. What could serve the people better than peace? And what served peace better than mutual understanding? If the Soviet people were offered, in a series of articles, a clearer idea of how much National Socialism had achieved for ordinary German people, then the chances of peace were bound to be enhanced. As an Englishman with a long experience of Germany he was ideally placed to explain it to foreigners. And he had a strong personal reason for desiring peaceif war came, he added pathetically, he and his German-born son might be separated for years and years. Here I am, he murmured to himself, a propaganda tool for the taking. The Gestapo would lap it up.

    He copied the address from Shchepkins note onto an envelope, unearthed a stamp from the table drawer, and perched the completed missive on his typewriter. Hearing the sounds of departing concierges floating up from the courtyard he made a dive for the window and pulled it shut.

    Bed, he thought. The bathroom on the floor below which he shared with McKinley and two other mena stationery rep from Hamburg and a waiter from the Harz Mountainswas empty for once, though the strong smell of McKinleys pipe smoke suggested a lengthy occupation earlier that evening. There was still light under the Americans door, and Russell could hear the soft clicking of his typewriterthe newer machines were much quieter than his own antique.

    Back in bed, he re-read Pauls postcard and resumed reading the detective novel he had forgotten to take to Danzig. Unable to remember who anyone was, he turned out the light and listened to the muffled hum of the traffic on nearby Lindenstrasse. The Fuhrer was probably allowed to sleep with his windows open.

    HE SPENT THE NEXT two days looking after business. Wednesday and Thursday morning, he made the long trek out to Friedrichshain for two 90-minute sessions with the Wiesner girls. The elder daughter Marthe was a bit shy at first, but Ruths enthusiasm proved infectious enough to bring her out. The two of them knew very little English, but they were a joy to teach, eager to learn and markedly more intelligent than the spoiled daughters of Grunewald and Wilmersdorf whom Russell had taught in the past.

    This was on the Wednesdaythe following day both girls looked as though theyd seen a ghost, and Russell wondered whether theyd had bad news from Sachsenhausen. When he asked if they were all right, he thought Marthe was going to cry, but she took a visible grip on herself and explained that her brother had come home the previous evening.

    But thats wonderful. . . . Russell began.

    He doesnt seem like Albert, Ruth broke in, looking over her shoulder at the door through to the other rooms. He has no hair, and he doesnt say anything, she whispered.

    He will, Marthe told her sister, putting an arm round her. Hes just seen some terrible things, but he hasnt been hurt, not really. Now come on, we have to learn English. For everyones sake.

    And they did, faster than any pupils Russell could remember. Neither mother nor brother emerged from the other rooms, and Doctor Wiesner was out on both days. On the Thursday he left Russell a small amount of marks and three stamps in an envelope on top of the latest Stanley Gibbons catalogue from England. Russell didnt bother to check the listings.

    Wednesday afternoon, he had typed out the stamp wars article and stuck two copies in the red air mail box by the Hotel Bristol entrance on Unter den Linden. Thursday morning, a telegram arrived from his London agent pointing out the need for exclusive photographs with his piece on Hitlers new Chancellery, and that afternoon Russell dragged himself out to a photographic studio in the wilds of Neukolln, only to discover that the photographer in question, a Silesian named Zembski