Stattin Station by David Downing Page A

around, he had his pick of the foreign newspapers, and spent a couple of hours wading through them. Their assessments of Germany's military prospects were generally less rosy than those of the Nazi press, but the difference was much less dramatic than Russell had hoped for. It seemed as if everything, and particularly Moscow, was still up for grabs.
    The rain was beating against the windows, trams splashing their way through one large puddle in the corner of Leipziger Platz. He would give Ribbentrop's press conference a miss, he thought, and lunch where he was. There was plenty of paper, and it was time he produced some copy. He decided to take the official German briefings as gospel, and share his hosts' belief that the capture of Moscow was imminent. Who knew - it might get the Americans off their backsides.
    After writing a first draft he brooded awhile on what Giminich might be planning, before abruptly deciding that second-guessing Obersturmbannfuhrers was only likely to make one anxious. Once Ribbentrop's press conference was over the Press Club would rapidly fill with correspondents in search of lunch, and with pleasant odours already drifting up from the kitchens, he headed for the dining-room. A couple of Ministry officials were already there, sitting at different tables with nothing in front of them, waiting for conversations to influence or report on. Goebbels was a thorough bastard in both meanings of the phrase.
    Welland's other colleagues received the news of his sighting with resigned shrugs. There was nothing any of them could do to help him, or anyone else foolish or unfortunate enough to end up in the basements of the Gestapo.
    Effi sat on the sofa in Ansgar Marssolek's enormous office, watching the producer rummage through an overfull in-tray for whatever it was he was looking for. Outside it was raining in earnest, lakes forming in the empty car lot and torrents gushing from the down-pipes on either end of the sound stage opposite. Two actors in eighteenth-century costume were leaning on either jamb of an open doorway, both smoking cigarettes and staring out mournfully.
    She had known of Marssolek for a long time, but had never met him before. Before the Nazis seized their industry by the throat, he had been known as a producer of interesting films, but these days, reduced like the rest of them to the effective status of a state employee, he was best known as one of Goebbels' more reliable disciples. He could be relied upon to get a film made, on time and on message.
    'Have you worked with Karl Lautmann?' he asked, still searching, glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose.
    'Yes. I did Mother with him a couple of years ago.'
    'Of course. I remember now. That must be why he wants you.'
    'For what?'
    'Ah, here it is,' Marssolek exclaimed, gingerly extracting a script from a teetering pile. 'The working title is "Betrayal", but we need something better.' He came out from behind his desk and joined her on the sofa, the script resting across his thighs. 'My dear, there's one I thing I have to tell you before we proceed. And this comes from the Minister Goebbels himself. Given the nature of this particular role, you are under no professional obligation to accept it.'
    A child-molester was her first thought.
    'We want you to play a Jewess,' Marssolek said apologetically.
    She paused before replying. 'Why me?'
    'Well, there are two reasons. Forgive me, my dear, but you have the right skin tone and hair colour. And it has to be admitted that some Jewesses are, like you, exceptionally beautiful. Secondly, you are a wonderful actress, and this will be a very difficult part to play. One that has to be performed just right. And Lautmann is convinced you could do it justice.'
    She felt both repelled and intrigued. 'Tell me the story.'
    'It's still in the formative stage - you have GPU to do first, and this other film won't start shooting until at least February. Yours is one of the two central characters -