‘So we should turn the other cheek?’ Cesia asked, speaking for the first time. ‘We are not Christians,’ she added contemptuously.
‘No,’ Russell agreed.
‘Look around this city,’ Yeichel said calmly. ‘Everywhere you turn, there are Nazis resuming their old lives as if nothing had happened. No one is going to punish them.’
‘We are living in the ruins of their capital.’
‘Oh, the Germans have been punished for invading other countries. But not for what they did to us. Read the reports from Nuremberg — the Jews are hardly mentioned.’
‘We are the lucky ones,’ Cesia said bitterly. ‘We survived when millions didn’t, and we owe them a debt. One day we will have homes and families and jobs again, but our war will not be over until that debt is paid. Until then we belong to the dead.’
‘And when do you think that might be?’
‘Soon,’ Yeichel told him. ‘We have a homeland to build in Palestine, so our business here cannot take long.’
Russell could think of other questions, but he wanted away from the two of them, from her burning resentment and his chilling self-righteousness. Haferkamp would have fitted right in.
Three corroded souls.
Interview over, he and Isendahl walked back down to Neue Konigstrasse. ‘What do you think they’re planning?’ Russell asked his companion, not really expecting an answer.
‘I don’t know. But… I have a Jewish friend — this is off the record, all right?’
‘Okay.’
‘This friend is also in a group — they call themselves the Ghosts of Treblinka. Or just the Ghosts. And they look for ex-Nazis. Not the sort who just joined the Party out of greed or fear, but men who killed Jews, or sought profit from their deaths. Men they could turn over to the Occupation authorities with a reasonable expectation of punishment.’
‘Sounds admirable.’
‘But they don’t turn them over,’ Isendahl continued. ‘They dress up as British soldiers, tell these men they’re arresting them, and then drive them out into the countryside. When they reach their destination, they tell the Nazi that they’re Jews, and execute him.’
‘Ah.’ Russell found himself wondering whether the Ghosts made use of Kyritz Wood. ‘You think the Nokmim are planning something similar?’
‘No. I told Cesia about these people, and she hated what they were doing. She said they were treating the Nazis as individuals, which was not how the Nazis had treated the Jews. She said the Nazis should be killed the way the Jews were killed. Anonymously, impersonally. On an industrial scale.’
‘Of course,’ Russell murmured. ‘Gas?’ he wondered out loud. ‘Poison in the water? But where would they find that many Nazis?’
‘In a prison camp.’
‘Did they tell you that?’
‘No, it just seems logical.’
It did. And almost just. Almost. ‘And you’re happy to let them get on with it?’
‘Happy overstates it,’ Isendahl admitted, ‘but then again, I’m not in the business of rescuing Nazis. Are you?’
It was a fair enough question. And the answer, Russell realised, was no.
Effi was already asleep by the time he got home, and already gone when he woke in the morning. In the old days he would have made his leisurely way down to Kranzler’s on Unter den Linden, read the papers, sipped his way through at least one cup of excellent coffee, and basked in the life of a freelance journalist in Europe’s most exciting city. But that was then — he was, he realised, dwelling more in the past than was healthy. Maybe ruins encouraged nostalgia.
He was not looking forward to meeting Shchepkin, and realised that was unusual. Asking himself why, he decided that he’d always seen himself as a self-employed, independent sort of spy. A permanent place on Stalin’s payroll evoked very different feelings.
The sun was shining as he emerged from the Potsdamerplatz U-Bahn station, but the chill in the air was appreciably sharper than on the previous day. The home of Europe’s first traffic lights was still a wreck, but several reconstruction gangs were at work behind the shattered facades of the perimeter, the dust from their efforts hanging red in the bright blue sky.
Russell walked up the old Hermann-Goring-Strasse and into the Tiergarten. The open-air market seemed as popular as ever, and would doubtless remain so until the occupation authorities created the conditions for something more legal. As he arrived, he noticed two women proudly bearing away a precious square of glass. Berliners were only allowed to glaze one room per dwelling, but people were travelling out into the country, removing windows from their own or others’ cottages, and bringing them back to the city to sell.
Shchepkin appeared halfway through his second circuit, and the two of them retired to the same bench as last time.
Russell placed his copy of the Allgemeine Zeitung between them.
‘Your report is inside?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Anything else worth reading?’ Shchepkin asked, looking down at the American-sponsored newspaper.
‘There’s an article about the adoption of orphans. It seems that Germans prefer them blond.’
‘That’s hardly news.’
‘No.’ Perhaps the Nokmim were right, Russell thought.
‘So have you seen all five men?’
‘Not Leissner. He’s out of town. He’ll be back this weekend, but I’m leaving town myself, so he’ll have to wait.’
‘Where are you going?’
Russell explained about the Haganah offer. ‘You did say you wanted a working journalist.’
‘We do. And I’m sure that Leissner can wait. So what about the others?’
Russell went through the list. ‘Junghaus and Trenkel — the planner and the propagandist — you won’t have any trouble with either of them. Strohm will argue for what he thinks is right, but only until a decision has been made. He’ll always accept Party discipline because he can’t imagine life outside the Party. Haferkamp is a bomb waiting to go off, but I assume you know that already — he told me he’d published an article outlining his views.’
‘It was only just brought to our attention,’ Shchepkin said. ‘The German comrades like to keep their disputes to themselves.’
‘Even Ulbricht’s pro-Soviet bunch?’
‘Especially them. They’re afraid that opposition in their own ranks reflects badly on themselves.’
‘Well Haferkamp’s only a journalist. Maybe the Party could find him a job in the sports department.’
‘Maybe.’ He gave Russell an enigmatic smile. ‘I hope you’ve been completely honest in your appraisals.’
‘Of course I have,’ Russell lied. ‘There seemed no point in anything else. A man like Haferkamp has no future in the KPD — he just hasn’t realised it yet. He’ll be happier filing football reports.’
‘And the names we provided for Fraulein Koenen?’
‘She says they’re pathetically grateful to your people for the chance to make their film, and that they hardly ever mention politics — just the occasional anti-American gibe. And that when they remember they belong to the Party, no one could be more loyal.’
Shchepkin snorted. ‘The worst kind — when people like that wake up, they always get really angry. But thank you, and thank Fraulein Koenen.’ He tapped his fingers on the folded newspaper. ‘Have you given the Americans a copy?’
‘Not yet, but I will.’ He would have to give Dallin the same report, just to be on the safe side — he had no idea how much information the Americans shared with the British, and he hadn’t forgotten Shchepkin’s warning of Soviet moles in MI5 and MI6. He could always give the Californian a fuller verbal report. ‘The Americans have found a task for me,’ he told Shchepkin. ‘Have you ever heard of a chemist named Theodor Schreier?’ he asked, half hoping that the Russian would say no.
‘Yes,’ Shchepkin answered, clearly interested.
‘Well the Americans want him, and they’ve more or less ordered me to go and fetch him.’