head.
He turned away. Sarah Grostein was her name. A Jew, he'd assumed at their first meeting, though she didn't look like one. What the hell was a friend of the Wiesners', Jewish or not, doing on the arms of an SS Gruppenfuhrer? It was an interesting question, but not, he suspected, one that he'd ever know the answer to.
Once they were home he told Effi what had happened, expecting her to share his surprise.
'I'm beginning to think that Berlin is full of people leading double lives,' was all she said.
Delightfully languorous Saturday mornings, Russell reminded himself on waking, were one of the perks freelancers received in exchange for their miserable income. Hired hacks, on the other hand, had to keep up with the news, which these days barely slowed on Sundays, let alone Saturdays. He got up, took a bath and brought a sleepy Effi a cup of coffee in bed. She was seeing Zarah for lunch - her sister was eager to hear about the premiere - and thought it better to save a joint outing with Paul for the following weekend. Russell headed downtown to see how the German government was dealing with the Hudson story.
It wasn't, was the short answer. In Britain the News Chronicle had blazed the story across its front page - 'Hudson's Howler' they called it - but there was no Propaganda Ministry press briefing scheduled until Monday morning. Hitler had, as usual, dropped everything for the Bayreuth Festival, and while the cat was away the mice were sleeping in. The German papers had nothing to say about Hudson, and were in surprisingly pacific mood. The more-than-suspicious disappearance of a German customs officer in Danzig - shots were heard minutes after he 'strayed' across the frontier - only warranted the adjective 'regrettable'. The ongoing national convention of the 'Strength Through Joy' organization was turning into 'a festival of joy and peace' according to its official convenor, the loathsome Robert Ley. Foreigners, on the other hand, were prone to unreasoning belligerence, as Ley's description of the recent Bastille Day celebrations in France - 'an atmosphere of warmongering, nervousness and hysteria' - showed only too clearly.
Russell had something to eat at the Zoo Station buffet and drove out to Grunewald to pick up Paul. Ilse asked after Effi , and was obviously curious to know why she had been released. Russell told his ex-wife that it had all been a mistake, that the Gestapo had advised them against mentioning either the release or the original arrest. He thought he could trust Ilse, but he was determined not to compromise her in any way. Paul's safety - not to mention her own - might depend on it.
Over the last couple of years his son had often chosen the Funkturm for their Saturday outings, and on this particular occasion he almost insisted. Revisiting Berlin's version of the Eiffel Tower, Russell came to realize as the afternoon wore on, was an integral part of Paul's coming home. The splendid Funkturm represented a Germany the boy could be proud of, a Germany, moreover, which he could share with his English father. Standing on the viewing platform, staring out in the direction of his beloved Hertha's Gesundbrunnen stadium, was a way for Paul to hold his world together.
His son was all over the place, Russell realized. Though quick to defend his country against any slight, he was still revelling in the wonders of the very different world across the Atlantic. As Paul looked out across Berlin, Russell knew that the boy was also seeing Manhattan. 'You were right about the hot dogs,' he told him. 'I had one at Gerhardt's the other day. They are the best.'
They walked round to the other side. The Havelsee shone piercing blue in the afternoon sunshine, and Russell was just thinking how peaceful Berlin looked from 125 metres up when the swelling whine of police sirens punctured the illusion. Paul raced back to the east-facing windows to see what was happening. 'They're down here!' he shouted.
Russell was walking
He turned away. Sarah Grostein was her name. A Jew, he'd assumed at their first meeting, though she didn't look like one. What the hell was a friend of the Wiesners', Jewish or not, doing on the arms of an SS Gruppenfuhrer? It was an interesting question, but not, he suspected, one that he'd ever know the answer to.
Once they were home he told Effi what had happened, expecting her to share his surprise.
'I'm beginning to think that Berlin is full of people leading double lives,' was all she said.
Delightfully languorous Saturday mornings, Russell reminded himself on waking, were one of the perks freelancers received in exchange for their miserable income. Hired hacks, on the other hand, had to keep up with the news, which these days barely slowed on Sundays, let alone Saturdays. He got up, took a bath and brought a sleepy Effi a cup of coffee in bed. She was seeing Zarah for lunch - her sister was eager to hear about the premiere - and thought it better to save a joint outing with Paul for the following weekend. Russell headed downtown to see how the German government was dealing with the Hudson story.
It wasn't, was the short answer. In Britain the News Chronicle had blazed the story across its front page - 'Hudson's Howler' they called it - but there was no Propaganda Ministry press briefing scheduled until Monday morning. Hitler had, as usual, dropped everything for the Bayreuth Festival, and while the cat was away the mice were sleeping in. The German papers had nothing to say about Hudson, and were in surprisingly pacific mood. The more-than-suspicious disappearance of a German customs officer in Danzig - shots were heard minutes after he 'strayed' across the frontier - only warranted the adjective 'regrettable'. The ongoing national convention of the 'Strength Through Joy' organization was turning into 'a festival of joy and peace' according to its official convenor, the loathsome Robert Ley. Foreigners, on the other hand, were prone to unreasoning belligerence, as Ley's description of the recent Bastille Day celebrations in France - 'an atmosphere of warmongering, nervousness and hysteria' - showed only too clearly.
Russell had something to eat at the Zoo Station buffet and drove out to Grunewald to pick up Paul. Ilse asked after Effi , and was obviously curious to know why she had been released. Russell told his ex-wife that it had all been a mistake, that the Gestapo had advised them against mentioning either the release or the original arrest. He thought he could trust Ilse, but he was determined not to compromise her in any way. Paul's safety - not to mention her own - might depend on it.
Over the last couple of years his son had often chosen the Funkturm for their Saturday outings, and on this particular occasion he almost insisted. Revisiting Berlin's version of the Eiffel Tower, Russell came to realize as the afternoon wore on, was an integral part of Paul's coming home. The splendid Funkturm represented a Germany the boy could be proud of, a Germany, moreover, which he could share with his English father. Standing on the viewing platform, staring out in the direction of his beloved Hertha's Gesundbrunnen stadium, was a way for Paul to hold his world together.
His son was all over the place, Russell realized. Though quick to defend his country against any slight, he was still revelling in the wonders of the very different world across the Atlantic. As Paul looked out across Berlin, Russell knew that the boy was also seeing Manhattan. 'You were right about the hot dogs,' he told him. 'I had one at Gerhardt's the other day. They are the best.'
They walked round to the other side. The Havelsee shone piercing blue in the afternoon sunshine, and Russell was just thinking how peaceful Berlin looked from 125 metres up when the swelling whine of police sirens punctured the illusion. Paul raced back to the east-facing windows to see what was happening. 'They're down here!' he shouted.
Russell was walking
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