attempted theft of new prosthetic-limb technology from their own subsidiary in the Soviet Zone. The company was interested in making money, the subsidiary in helping those who had lost limbs in the war, and the former was eventually thwarted by two trade-unionworkers, a widower in the West and a widow in the East, who knew each from years before, when they worked together in the anti-fascist resistance.
As a story, Effi supposed it was just about feasible, but then so were many of those dreamed up by Goebbels’ cinematic minions. The characterisation did nothing to help—even the leads were cardboard cut-outs—and the writing in general lived down to the plot, with both leading characters prone to spout slogans as they turned their hopeful gazes towards the inevitable socialist future. All in all, the script felt as if someone had gone though it ruthlessly, excising any hint of nuance or shades of grey. Even the title was dreadful. Effi wanted no part of it.
Russell visited Father Kozniku’s office, which was close to the San Giusto cathedral, late on Friday afternoon. A buxom Italian woman with a wonderful mane of black hair—Artucci’s Luciana, presumably—showed him through to the inner sanctum, where the priest himself, a corpulent figure with a bulging red face and almost black eyes, was busy copying figures into a leather-bound ledger.
‘I’m here for the Balanchuk papers,’ Russell announced, in reply to the look of enquiry. Roman Balanchuk was the name on Palychko’s new passport.
‘You’re new,’ Kozniku noted, opening a desk drawer and removing a small sheaf of papers.
Taking the seat that hadn’t been offered, Russell reached inside his jacket for the documents Crowell had given him—the passport and fake baptismal certificate—and the wad of Benjamin Franklins.
The priest waved away the baptismal certificate—so much for Draganović’s Catholics-only strictures—and didn’t even bother to count the hundred-dollar notes. He even looked mildly irked when Russell took time to check the details on the new Colombian visaagainst those on the American-forged passport. They tallied perfectly.
‘The sailing ticket will be waiting in Genoa,’ the priest said. ‘A pleasure to do business with you,’ he finished with, attention already back on his ledger.
Walking back down the hill in search for dinner, Russell found himself wishing that Shchepkin would suddenly appear at his shoulder. There was so few people who shared his utter dismay at what had happened to Europe over the past thirty years.
Russell drank too much that evening, and felt like hell when one of the Marko’s daughters woke him the following morning with news that an American soldier had come to see him. The lieutenant in question had scarcely credible news—TRUST, the optimistically acronymed Trieste United States Troops, had run out of jeeps, and Russell would have to reach Udine by other means of transport. There was a military travel pass for him, allowing free passage on all public transport inside Zone A, but once outside the Free Territory, he would have to pay his own way. This information was delivered between disapproving sniffs, as the young man circled Russell’s room, examining his belongings like a Kripo officer seeking out evidence of crimes as yet unknown. Only Effi’s publicity shot stopped him. ‘Your wife?’ he asked, as if he could hardly credit it.
‘Yes,’ Russell admitted. The word still sounded strange, though almost a year had passed since they’d finally got married. They had always said they would wait until love was the only reason, but it had been Rosa’s adoption which forced them into it. The love of a child.
The lieutenant stared at the picture once more, probably hoping to find a flaw, and then abruptly made for the door. ‘Return the pass to the Miramar HQ as soon as you get back,’ was his parting shot.
Russell lifted his battered suitcase on to the bed, and added achange of
As a story, Effi supposed it was just about feasible, but then so were many of those dreamed up by Goebbels’ cinematic minions. The characterisation did nothing to help—even the leads were cardboard cut-outs—and the writing in general lived down to the plot, with both leading characters prone to spout slogans as they turned their hopeful gazes towards the inevitable socialist future. All in all, the script felt as if someone had gone though it ruthlessly, excising any hint of nuance or shades of grey. Even the title was dreadful. Effi wanted no part of it.
Russell visited Father Kozniku’s office, which was close to the San Giusto cathedral, late on Friday afternoon. A buxom Italian woman with a wonderful mane of black hair—Artucci’s Luciana, presumably—showed him through to the inner sanctum, where the priest himself, a corpulent figure with a bulging red face and almost black eyes, was busy copying figures into a leather-bound ledger.
‘I’m here for the Balanchuk papers,’ Russell announced, in reply to the look of enquiry. Roman Balanchuk was the name on Palychko’s new passport.
‘You’re new,’ Kozniku noted, opening a desk drawer and removing a small sheaf of papers.
Taking the seat that hadn’t been offered, Russell reached inside his jacket for the documents Crowell had given him—the passport and fake baptismal certificate—and the wad of Benjamin Franklins.
The priest waved away the baptismal certificate—so much for Draganović’s Catholics-only strictures—and didn’t even bother to count the hundred-dollar notes. He even looked mildly irked when Russell took time to check the details on the new Colombian visaagainst those on the American-forged passport. They tallied perfectly.
‘The sailing ticket will be waiting in Genoa,’ the priest said. ‘A pleasure to do business with you,’ he finished with, attention already back on his ledger.
Walking back down the hill in search for dinner, Russell found himself wishing that Shchepkin would suddenly appear at his shoulder. There was so few people who shared his utter dismay at what had happened to Europe over the past thirty years.
Russell drank too much that evening, and felt like hell when one of the Marko’s daughters woke him the following morning with news that an American soldier had come to see him. The lieutenant in question had scarcely credible news—TRUST, the optimistically acronymed Trieste United States Troops, had run out of jeeps, and Russell would have to reach Udine by other means of transport. There was a military travel pass for him, allowing free passage on all public transport inside Zone A, but once outside the Free Territory, he would have to pay his own way. This information was delivered between disapproving sniffs, as the young man circled Russell’s room, examining his belongings like a Kripo officer seeking out evidence of crimes as yet unknown. Only Effi’s publicity shot stopped him. ‘Your wife?’ he asked, as if he could hardly credit it.
‘Yes,’ Russell admitted. The word still sounded strange, though almost a year had passed since they’d finally got married. They had always said they would wait until love was the only reason, but it had been Rosa’s adoption which forced them into it. The love of a child.
The lieutenant stared at the picture once more, probably hoping to find a flaw, and then abruptly made for the door. ‘Return the pass to the Miramar HQ as soon as you get back,’ was his parting shot.
Russell lifted his battered suitcase on to the bed, and added achange of
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