Russell strode up to the brownshirt and the Englishwoman and flashed his Foreign Ministry press accreditation, which at least gave the man a new outlet for his anger.
What the fuck are you doing here? the Truppfuhrer shouted. He had a depressingly porcine face, and the bulk to go with it.
Trying to help, Russell said calmly. I speak English.
Well then tell this English bitch to get back on the train with the kike brats where she belongs.
Russell turned to the woman, a petite brunette who couldn't have been much more than twenty-five. Hes not worth screaming at, he told her in English. And it wont do you any good. In fact, youll only make matters worse.
I . . . She seemed at a loss for words.
I know, Russell said. You cant believe people could behave like this. But this lot do. All the time.
As if to emphasize the point, the Truppfuhrer started shouting again. When she started shouting back he reached for her arm, and she kicked him in the shin. He backhanded her across the face with what seemed like enormous force, spinning her round and dumping her face-first on the snowy platform. She groaned and shook her head.
Russell put himself between them. Look, he said to the man, this will get you court-martialed if youre not careful. The Fuhrer doesnt want you giving the English this sort of a propaganda victory.
The British woman was groggily raising herself onto all fours. The stormtrooper took one last look at his victim, made a pah! noise of which any pantomime villain would have been proud, and strode away down the platform.
Russell helped her to her feet.
What did you say to him? she asked, gingerly feeling an already-swelling cheek.
I appealed to his better nature.
There must be someone. . . . she began.
There isnt, he assured her. The laws dont apply to Jews, or anyone who acts on their behalf. Just look after the children. They look like they need it.
I dont need you to tell me. . . .
I know you dont. Im just trying. . . .
She was looking past his shoulder. Hes coming back.
The Truppfuhrer had a Sturmfuhrer with him, a smaller man with round glasses and a chubby face. Out of uniformassuming they ever took them offhe put them down as a shopkeeper and minor civil servant. Danzigs finest.
Your papers, the Sturmfuhrer demanded.
Theyre in my hotel room.
What is your name?
John Russell.
You are English?
Im an English journalist. I live in the Reich, and I have full accreditation from the Ministry of Propaganda in Berlin.
We shall check that.
Of course.
And what are you doing here?
I came to see what was happening. As journalists do. I intervened in the argument between your colleague and this Red Cross worker because I thought his behavior was damaging the reputation of the Reich.
The Sturmfuhrer paused for thought, then turned to his subordinate. Im sure my colleague regrets any misunderstanding, he said meaningfully.
The Truppfuhrer looked at the woman. I apologize, he said woodenly.
He apologizes, Russell told her.
Tell him to go to hell, she said.
She accepts your apology, Russell told the two brownshirts.
Good. Now she must get back on the train, and you must come with us.
Russell sighed. You should get on the train, he told her. You wont get anywhere by protesting.
She took a deep breath. All right, she said, as if it was anything but. Thank you, she added, offering her hand.
Russell took it. Tell the press when you get back to civilization, he said, and good luck.
He watched her mount the steps and disappear into the train. The children were all aboard now; most had their faces pressed against the windows, frantically wiping their breath from the glass to get a last clear look at their parents. A few had managed to force back the sliding ventilators and wedge their faces in the narrow gap. Some were shouting, some pleading. Most were crying.
Russell tore his gaze from the windows just in time to see a small girl leap nimbly down from the train and race across the platform. The stormtrooper by the door spun to catch her, but slipped in the slush as he did so, and fell face-first onto the platform. As he struggled to his feet a boy of around ten rushed past him.
The little girls arms were tightly wrapped around her kneeling mothers neck. Esther, we have to get on the train, the boy said angrily, but daughter and mother were both crying too hard to notice him. The fathers anguished appeals to reasonRuth, we have to let her go; Esther, you must go with your brotherfell on equally deaf ears.
The stormtrooper, red-faced with anger, took a fistful of the girls long black hair and yanked. The shock tore her arms from her mothers neck, and he started dragging the girl across the slush-strewn platform to the train. The mother shrieked and went after them. He let go of the girl and crashed his rubber cosh across one side of the mothers face. She sank back, a rivulet of blood running onto her coat collar. As the stormtrooper went to hit the woman again, her husband grabbed for the cosh, but two other brownshirts wrestled him to the ground, and started raining down blows on his head. The boy picked up his whimpering sister and shepherded her back onto the train.
More stormtroopers came racing up, but they needn't have bothered. Like Russell, the watching parents were too stunned to protest, let alone intervene.
I dont want to go, a small voice said behind him.
He turned to find its owner. She was standing on a seatback, face twisted sideways in an open ventilator, brown eyes brimming with tears. She couldn't have been more than five.
Please, can you tell the policemen that I dont want to go? My name is Fraulein Gisela Kluger.
Russell walked across to the train, wondering what on earth he could say. Im afraid you have to make this trip, he said. Your mother and father think youll be safer in England.
But I dont want to, she said, a large tear sliding down either cheek.
I know, but. . . . Another whistle shrilled down the platform; a spasm of steam escaped from the locomotive. Im sorry, he said helplessly.
The train jerked into motion. A momentary panic flitted across her face, followed by a look that Russell would long rememberone that blended accusation, incomprehension, and the sort of grief that no fiveyear-old should have to bear.
As the train pulled away a tiny hand poked out through the window and waved.
Im sorry, Russell murmured.
Another hand grasped his arm. The Truppfuhrers. You, English. Come with us.
He was ushered down the platform in the Sturmfuhrers wake. Most of the mothers and fathers were still focussed on the disappearing train, their eyes clinging to the red taillight, the last flicker of family. They had sent their children away. To save their lives, they had turned them into orphans.
One woman, her eyes closed, was kneeling in the snow, a low keening noise rising up from inside her. The sound stayed with Russell as he was led out of the station. The sound of a heart caving in.
In the goods yard the Truppfuhrer pushed him toward a car. My hotels just across the road, Russell protested.
We will collect your papers, the Sturmfuhrer said.
As they bundled him into a car, it occurred to Russell that Shchepkins envelope was still sitting on his nightstand.
DANZIG WAS WAKING UP as they drove back toward the city center, shopkeepers clearing the nights snow off their patches of sidewalk. Russell kept his eyes on where they were going, hoping to God it wasnt some SA barracks out of humanitys hearing range. As they pulled up outside an official police station on Hunde-Gasse he managed to suppress an audible sigh of relief.