David Downing - Zero Station

“Good God, no.”

“Well then, I can tell you we’ve sold the “Germany’s Neighbours” series in both Canada and Australia. And here”-he rummaged in a drawer-“is a check to prove it.”

Russell took it, and passed a sheaf of papers in the opposite direction. “One for each series,” he said. “I thought I’d save the postage.”

“An expensive way to do it. You came by train, I take it?”

“Nope. We flew.”

Bernstein’s eyebrows rose. “Even more expensive. My percentage is obviously too low.”

“I came for another reason. Two, actually. And one was to ask you a favor.” Russell outlined the Wiesners’ circumstances, his hope that at least some members of the family would be given exit visas before a war broke out. Paul, he noticed, was listening with great interest to his recital. “I’ve just put the family wealth in a safety deposit box,” he told the unusually sober Bernstein. “There are two keys, and I was hoping you’d hang on to one of them. They’ll have the other, but there’s a good chance it would be confiscated at the border.”

“Why, in heaven’s name?”

“Simple spite. If Jews are caught carrying a key out, the Nazis will guess it’s for something like this.”

“I’d be happy to keep one of them.”

“Thanks,” Russell said, handing the key over. “That’s a weight off my mind.” He stole a glance at Paul, who looked more confused than anything else.

“How long are you here for?” Bernstein asked.

“Oh, only till Sunday. I came with my girlfriend’s sister-that was the other reason. She wanted to have her son examined by an English doctor. A long story. But if there’s a war, well, I guess I’ll be back for the duration.”

“Without him?” Bernstein asked, nodding in Paul’s direction.

“Without him.”

Bernstein made a sympathetic face. “Anyway, at least you’ve got a lot of work at the moment. No other ideas you want to talk about?”

“Not at the moment.” He looked at his watch. “We’d better go. Paul?”

His son closed the book and brought it over. “You can keep it,” Bernstein said. “Practice your English on the captions.”

“Thank you,” Paul said. “Very much,” he added carefully.

“It’s working already.” He offered Paul his hand, then did the same to Russell.

“He was a nice man,” Paul said, as they made their way down through the steamy stairwell.

“He is,” Russell agreed, as they reached the pavement. “And he’s Jewish,” he added, hoping that Paul was not going to wipe the handshake off on his coat.

He didn’t, but he did look upset.

“They’re wrong about the Jews,” Russell said firmly. “They may be right about many things, but they’re wrong about the Jews.”

“But everyone says…”

“Not everyone. I don’t. Your mother doesn’t. Your Uncle Thomas doesn’t. Effi doesn’t.”

“But the government says…”

“Governments can be wrong. They’re just people. Like you and me. Look what foreign governments did to Germany in 1918. They were wrong. It happens, Paul. They get things wrong.”

Paul looked torn between anger and tears.

“Look. Let’s not spoil the trip arguing about politics. We’re in London-let’s enjoy it.” They were walking down Charing Cross Road by this time. “I know where we can get a cup of tea and a cake,” he said, steering Paul off to the left. A few minutes later they were on the edge of Covent Garden market, dodging trucks piled high with crates of fruit and vegetables. Russell led them into one of the cafйs.

It was full of men sawing at rashers of bacon and dribbling egg down their chins. Fried grease in its gaseous, liquid, and solid forms filled the air, lay congealing on the tables and covered the walls. England, Russell thought. He had a sudden memory of a similar cafй just outside Victoria Station, where he’d eaten his last meal before service in France. Twenty-one years ago.

Russell bought two large cups of tea and two aptly named rock cakes. Paul nibbled at the edges of his, rightfully fearing for his teeth, but liked the tea once he’d added four teaspoons of sugar. “The cake is terrible,” he told his father in German, causing several sets of less-than-friendly eyes to swivel their way.

“Do you know anything about football?” Russell asked the nearest man in English.

“Maybe.”

“Are there any games on in London tomorrow?”

“Arsenal are playing Chelsea,” another man volunteered.

“At Highbury?”

“Of course.”

“And the games still kick off at three? I’ve been working abroad for a while,” he added in explanation.

“So we see,” the first man said with a leer. “Yeah, they still kick off at three.”

“Thanks. Would you like to see a game tomorrow?” he asked Paul. “Arsenal are playing Chelsea.”

His son’s eyes lit up. “Arsenal are the best!”

They finished their teas, abandoned the half-excavated rock cakes, and picked their way through the vegetable market, taking particular care outside the peel-strewn frontage of a banana wholesaler. It was getting dark now, and Russell wasn’t sure where he was. Looking for a street sign they found one for Bow Street.

“Bow Street,” Paul echoed. “This is where Chief Inspector Teal brings the men he’s arrested.”

Away to their left a blue light was shining. They walked up the street and stood across from the forbidding-looking police station, half-expecting the fictional inspector to emerge through the double doors, busily chewing on a wad of Wrigley’s as he adjusted his bowler hat.

Back on the Strand they found the Stanley Gibbons stamp shop was still open, and Paul spent a happy twenty minutes deciding which packets of cheap assorted stamps he most wanted. Russell looked in the catalogue for the ones Wiesner had given him in payment and was surprised to find how valuable they were. He wondered how many pounds-worth were nestling behind the stickers in their safety deposit box.

Zarah was more talkative at dinner than he ever remembered, and seemed newly determined to encourage the idea of his marrying her sister. She and Lothar accompanied them on their after-dinner walk this time, and Lothar, like Paul, seemed enthralled by the huge glittering river and its never-ending procession of barges and other boats. Russell and Zarah agreed upon their plans for Saturday: shopping in the morning, football for him and Paul in the afternoon, dinner with Jens’s embassy friend for her and Lothar in the evening. When they said goodnight outside her and Lothar’s room, she thanked him warmly for his help. They’d almost become friends, Russell thought. Effi would be amazed.

Paul was yawning, but Russell felt far too restless for sleep. “Bedtime for you,” he told his son. “I’m going back downstairs for a drink. I won’t be long.”

“You’re just going downstairs?”

“Yes. No stamp-smuggling tonight. Just a drink.”

Paul grinned. “All right.”

For a Friday night, the cocktail lounge seemed unusually empty. Russell bought a pint of bitter, parked himself on a stool at the end of the bar, and played with a beer mat. The taste of the English beer made him feel nostalgic. He had thought about taking Paul out to Guildford, to show him the house where he’d spent most of his own boyhood, but there wouldn’t be time. The next trip perhaps, if there was one.

He pictured the house, the large garden, the steeply sloping street he’d walked to school each day. He couldn’t say he’d had a happy childhood, but it hadn’t been particularly unhappy either. He hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but his mother had never really settled in England, despite almost thirty years of trying. His father’s inability or unwillingness to recognize that fact had undermined everything else. There had been a lot of silence in that house.