David Downing - Zero Station

“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.

“He’s 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.

“That’s Marietta,” the woman said. “She gets very absorbed in what she’s doing,” she added, as if she needed to explain the child’s lack of reaction.

Her name, as McKinley had already told Russell, was Theresa Jьrissen. She was younger than he’d first thought-around 35, probably-but 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 Jьrissen 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 children’s 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 demands-you 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. “I’m sorry. You don’t 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 wasn’t, well, ordinary, but I told myself she was just very shy, very self-absorbed… I mean, some adults are like that-they 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 she’d be sterilized, but… well, if she stayed the way she is now, she’d 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.”

“Did they threaten you?” McKinley asked.

“No, not really. They were just impatient with me. Shocked that I didn’t immediately accept that they knew best.”

“Like most doctors,” Russell murmured.

“Perhaps. And maybe they were completely genuine. Maybe Marietta does need whatever it is they have to offer.”

“So you took her away?” McKinley asked.

“I had to. Just two days after I left her in the clinic I was at the Falkenheide asylum-you know it? It’s just outside Fьrstenwalde. I was in the staff canteen, checking through their orders over a cup of coffee when I became aware of the conversation at the next table. I tried to ignore it, but I couldn’t. And they were speaking quite normally-there was nothing clandestine about it. In a way that was what was most shocking about it-they assumed that their topic of conversation was common knowledge. As far as the asylum staff were concerned, that is.” She paused, and glanced across at Marietta. “What they were talking about was a letter which had been sent out by the Ministry of Justice to all directors of asylums. That letter wanted the directors’ opinions on how they should change the law to allow the killing of incurable children. Should they announce a new law, or should they issue administrative decrees and keep the public in ignorance? This is what the people at the next table were debating, even joking about. Three of them were doctors I recognized, and the woman looked like a senior nurse.”

“This was all spelled out?” Russell asked incredulously. He instinctively trusted her-could see no reason for her to lie-but her scene in the canteen sounded like one of those stage conversations written to update the audience.

“No,” she said, giving Russell an indignant look. “They were talking more about how the parents would react, whether they would prefer to hear that their children had simply died of whatever illness they had. It was only when I read the letter that it all made sense.”

“How? Where?” McKinley asked excitedly.

“Like I said, I was in that job a long time. I was on good terms with people in all the asylums. I knew I had to see the letter for myself, and I waited for a chance. A few days later a director was called out early, and I pretended I had to work late. I found the letter in his office.”

“I wish you’d kept it,” McKinley said, more to himself than her.

“I did,” she said simply.

“You did!” McKinley almost shouted, levering himself off the wall he’d been leaning against. “Where is it? Can we see it?”

“Not now. I don’t have it here.”

“How much do you need?” Russell asked.

“Another five hundred Reichsmarks?” The question mark was infinitesimal.

“That’s-” McKinley began.

“Good business sense,” Russell completed for him. “She needs the money,” he added in English.

“Yes, of course,” McKinley agreed. “I just don’t know how… But I’ll get it. Shall I come back here?” he asked her.

“No,” she said. “It’s too risky for me. Send the money to the posterestante on Heiligegeiststrasse. When I get it, I’ll send you the letter.”

“It’ll be there by tomorrow evening,” McKinley said, as he printed out the Neuenburgerstrasse address.

Russell stood up. “Did you have any trouble getting Marietta back?” he asked Theresa Jьrissen.

“Yes,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me take her. I had to steal my own child. That’s why we’re here in this place.”

They all looked down at the girl. Her drawing looked like a forest after a hurricane had hit it. “I wish you luck,” Russell said.

He and McKinley reached the street as a coal train thundered over the arches, and set about retracing their steps. It was raining now, the streets even emptier, the rare neighborhood bar offering a faint splash of light and noise. They didn’t speak until they reached the tram stop on Berlinerstrasse.

“If you get this story out, it’ll be your last one from Germany,” Russell said.