Ten minutes later, he was gazing out across the wide Danube. There was nothing blue about it, and no sign of the once busy traffic — the wharves away to his left stood empty and apparently abandoned. The dark, heavy current rolled remorselessly past, like a conveyor belt with nothing on it. Over on the northern shore the hulk of a burnt-out Panzer had its gun barrel dipped in the water, and looked like an animal taking a drink.
Russell stood there for several minutes, stray thoughts hopping in and out of his mind, then turned abruptly on his heels and started back towards the city centre.
Once in his hotel room, he spent a couple of hours sorting through notes and ideas, then closed his eyes for a nap. Awoken by coughing heatpipes, he was thrilled to find the water running hot, and was only slightly deflated by the absence of soap. A long soak in a full bath might be a luxury in much of post-war Europe, but it still felt like a human necessity. Feeling suitably restored, he sallied out in search of alcohol and food.
There would be an American Press Club, he realised — it was just a question of finding it. The hotel desk clerk thought it was on Josefstadterstrasse, which was only a five-minute walk away. Once there, a convenient passer-by directed him, with rather an envious look, towards a nearby side-street. The Press Club was open, well-lit and warm. As an added bonus, his old friend Jack Slaney was propping up one end of the bar, one hand wrapped round a half-empty stein.
Slaney had come to Berlin for the 1936 Olympics, and stayed on as the resident correspondent of the Chicago Post for almost five years. He had sailed pretty close to Goebbels’ wind on several occasions, and had finally been asked to leave in the early summer of 1941, allegedly for calling Barbarossa an overgrown version of the Charge of the Light Brigade. He and Russell had spent many a happy hour trying to out-cynicise each other in the Adlon Bar, contests which Slaney had usually won. Russell hadn’t seen him since the summer, when the American had spent a few days in London en route to the Potsdam Conference.
‘So what are you doing here?’ Russell asked, sliding himself onto the neighbouring bar stool and signalling for two more drinks.
‘The bar or the country?’
‘The continent.’
Slaney considered. ‘A valedictory tour, I suspect. A sort of “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” What brings you to Vienna?’
Russell told him about the illegal Jewish exodus to Palestine, and how he’d been asked to tell the story.
Slaney nodded his appreciation. ‘If I wasn’t leaving tomorrow, I might follow along at a respectable distance. Not that I have the knees for mountain-climbing anymore.’
‘Neither do I. I’m assuming trucks — it must be too late in the year for walking.’
The beers arrived, and tasted as they should.
‘Your government won’t be too pleased at your dallying with the enemy,’ Slaney observed.
‘The British Government? No, I don’t suppose it will.’ This should have occurred to him, with half his family living in London at His Majesty’s discretion.
‘I can see their point of view,’ Slaney went on. ‘About the Jews and Palestine, I mean. It was bad enough before the war, when the Jews were a small minority. If they let in every Jew that wants to go they’ll have all the Arabs gunning for them.’
‘I can’t see that worrying anyone else.’
‘No, it won’t — the Jews will win the propaganda war. They have the two things that matter — lots of money and the biggest sob story in history. They’ll get their homeland all right. Though I doubt it’ll be the paradise they’re hoping for.’
‘After the last few years I expect they’ll settle for somewhere safe.’
Slaney snorted his disbelief. ‘In the middle of an Arab sea?’
Russell sighed. ‘Point taken.’
‘They’ve been giving out chunks of Germany to all and sundry — why not give the Jews a piece, make the criminal pay for the crime?’
‘Because “Next year in Dusseldorf ” doesn’t have the same ring to it?’
It was Slaney’s turn to sigh. ‘I guess.’
‘So, “now that they’re gone, was it all worth it?” Was it?’
Slaney took a first sip from the new stein and wiped his lips on the back of his hand. ‘I really don’t know. A year ago I had no doubts. And sometimes I still get that feeling — like the other day, when I was reading that testimony from Nuremberg about camp commandants using Jewish heads as paperweights. You think to yourself, we just had to get rid of those bastards, whatever it took.’
‘And yet,’ Russell prompted.
‘Yeah. And yet. What we did to Hiroshima and Nagasaki, what you limeys did to Dresden. And God only knows what good old Uncle Joe has been getting up to — the Poles are already accusing him of wiping out their entire officer corps.’
‘The same Poles who are now persecuting their returning Jews.’
‘Exactly. You end up asking yourself — how much better off are we? Enough to justify fifty million dead?’
Russell grunted his agreement. ‘And you missed out the French,’ he added. ‘Last week one of their journalists told me that they murdered around ten thousand Arabs in Algeria. Last spring, a little place called Setif.’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘You wouldn’t have — nothing appeared in the French papers. You know, there’s one thing that really upsets me. Every last idiot in thrall to violence, every last government hoping for some glory that rubs off — they’ll be trotting out the Nazi precedent for another hundred years. And even if the war against the bastards actually was worth fighting, I can’t help thinking they were the exception that proved the rule.’
‘The rule being?’
‘That wars sow only death and grief. I thought we’d learned that in 1918, but apparently not.’
Slaney grimaced. ‘You know, until I ran into you, I didn’t think I could feel any more depressed.’
Having arranged to meet Annaliese for some sort of supper on Tuesday evening, Effi asked the Russian bus driver to drop her off at the Dahlem-Dorf U-Bahn station. The train that arrived reeked to high heaven, but was mercifully almost empty. Exhausted, she sat with her eyes closed, drifting in and out of sleep, and almost missed her change at Wittenbergplatz.
It was dark when she finally emerged, and some desultory flakes of snow were visible in the dim glow of the few working streetlights. When she reached the Elisabeth there were twenty minutes remaining of Annaliese’s shift, so she took the opportunity to look in on the Rosenfelds. Esther had reported an improvement in her husband’s condition since the latest news of Miriam and the baby, and Effi was delighted to find him sitting up in bed. He still looked dreadfully weak, but his breathing seemed more regular and the flatness had gone from his eyes. He even looked interested when she told him the story behind Russell’s trip to Vienna.
Annaliese looked even tireder than Effi felt, but still insisted on their going out to eat. A new place had opened on nearby Lutzowstrasse, and several of the nurses had been astonished by the variety of food on offer.