observed. Paul loved Laurel and Hardy.
'What are you doing here?' Paul exclaimed. 'If you go to the school, it'll makes things worse.'
Russell sat down on the bed. 'They know you have an English father, Paul. It won't be news.'
'Yes, but...'
'What were the jokes?'
'They were just jokes.'
'Jokes are sometimes important.'
'Well I can't see that these two were. All right, I'll tell you. Describe the perfect German.' Russell had heard this one, but let Paul supply the punchline - 'Someone blond as Hitler, slim as Goering and tall as Goebbels.'
Russell smiled. 'You forgot clever as Ley and sane as Hess. What was the other?'
'One man says: "When the war's over I'm going to do a bicycle tour of the Reich." His friend replies: "So what will you do after lunch?"'
Russell laughed. 'That's a good one.'
'Yes, but it's just a silly joke. I don't really think we'll lose the war. It's just a joke.'
'They'll call it defeatism. And the first joke - these people take their racial stereotypes seriously. And they don't like being mocked.'
'But everyone tells jokes like those.'
'I know.'
'John, we have to go,' Ilse called from downstairs.
'Coming,' he shouted back. As he got up he noticed the picture of Udet on the wall, alongside Molders and the U-boat ace Gunther Prien. 'It was sad what happened to Udet,' he said.
Paul looked at him disbelievingly. 'You didn't like him.'
Russell had no memory of saying so to his son, but he probably had. 'He was a wonderful pilot,' he said weakly.
'I want to see the funeral march on Saturday,' Paul insisted.
'Fine,' Russell agreed. 'I'll check the route.'
He kissed his son's head, and went back down to Ilse. 'We just nod our heads and look humble,' she told him as they started down the street towards the school. 'No arguments, no smart replies. And no jokes.'
'You'll be saying he gets it from me next.'
'Well he does, doesn't he? But I'm not blaming you. I like it that he doesn't believe most of what they tell him.'
'What does Matthias think?'
'He's angry. But then these days he's angry about anything that reminds him of the government we've got. He'd rather just wake up when it's all over.'
It was the first time Russell had ever heard his ex-wife criticise her current husband, and he felt rather ashamed of enjoying the moment.
They walked through the school doors and down the corridor to Paul's classroom, where his teacher, a grey-haired man in his fifties or sixties, was marking a pile of exercise books. A large map of the western Soviet Union adorned one wall, complete with arrows depicting German advances. Russell wondered if the teacher knew that he and Ilse had met in Moscow, two young and eager communists out to change the world. No jokes, he reminded himself.
The teacher's name was Weber. He proved stern and apparently humourless, but also surprisingly reasonable. It turned out that one boy had repeated Paul's jokes to his own parents, and the father had turned up at the school in a rage that morning. The boy had not named Paul as the source, but once the matter had been discussed in class, Paul had privately informed Herr Weber of his guilt. The teacher had no intention of divulging Paul's name to the complaining parent, a man, he implied, who was somewhat over-zealous in ideological matters. Paul had an excellent record in the Jungvolk , Herr Weber went on, and had started out well in the Hitlerjugend , but, like many spirited boys of his age, he clearly felt the urge to test the boundaries of what was permissible. Which was all perfectly normal. But in days like these, such testing could have disproportionate consequences, and it was highly advisable for both teachers and parents to clarify those boundaries wherever they could.
Ilse and Russell agreed that it was.
Herr Weber gave them one wintry smile, and thanked them for coming in.
It was gone seven when Russell reached the Halensee Ringbahn station, and dense layers of cloud hid the moon and stars, promising one of the
'What are you doing here?' Paul exclaimed. 'If you go to the school, it'll makes things worse.'
Russell sat down on the bed. 'They know you have an English father, Paul. It won't be news.'
'Yes, but...'
'What were the jokes?'
'They were just jokes.'
'Jokes are sometimes important.'
'Well I can't see that these two were. All right, I'll tell you. Describe the perfect German.' Russell had heard this one, but let Paul supply the punchline - 'Someone blond as Hitler, slim as Goering and tall as Goebbels.'
Russell smiled. 'You forgot clever as Ley and sane as Hess. What was the other?'
'One man says: "When the war's over I'm going to do a bicycle tour of the Reich." His friend replies: "So what will you do after lunch?"'
Russell laughed. 'That's a good one.'
'Yes, but it's just a silly joke. I don't really think we'll lose the war. It's just a joke.'
'They'll call it defeatism. And the first joke - these people take their racial stereotypes seriously. And they don't like being mocked.'
'But everyone tells jokes like those.'
'I know.'
'John, we have to go,' Ilse called from downstairs.
'Coming,' he shouted back. As he got up he noticed the picture of Udet on the wall, alongside Molders and the U-boat ace Gunther Prien. 'It was sad what happened to Udet,' he said.
Paul looked at him disbelievingly. 'You didn't like him.'
Russell had no memory of saying so to his son, but he probably had. 'He was a wonderful pilot,' he said weakly.
'I want to see the funeral march on Saturday,' Paul insisted.
'Fine,' Russell agreed. 'I'll check the route.'
He kissed his son's head, and went back down to Ilse. 'We just nod our heads and look humble,' she told him as they started down the street towards the school. 'No arguments, no smart replies. And no jokes.'
'You'll be saying he gets it from me next.'
'Well he does, doesn't he? But I'm not blaming you. I like it that he doesn't believe most of what they tell him.'
'What does Matthias think?'
'He's angry. But then these days he's angry about anything that reminds him of the government we've got. He'd rather just wake up when it's all over.'
It was the first time Russell had ever heard his ex-wife criticise her current husband, and he felt rather ashamed of enjoying the moment.
They walked through the school doors and down the corridor to Paul's classroom, where his teacher, a grey-haired man in his fifties or sixties, was marking a pile of exercise books. A large map of the western Soviet Union adorned one wall, complete with arrows depicting German advances. Russell wondered if the teacher knew that he and Ilse had met in Moscow, two young and eager communists out to change the world. No jokes, he reminded himself.
The teacher's name was Weber. He proved stern and apparently humourless, but also surprisingly reasonable. It turned out that one boy had repeated Paul's jokes to his own parents, and the father had turned up at the school in a rage that morning. The boy had not named Paul as the source, but once the matter had been discussed in class, Paul had privately informed Herr Weber of his guilt. The teacher had no intention of divulging Paul's name to the complaining parent, a man, he implied, who was somewhat over-zealous in ideological matters. Paul had an excellent record in the Jungvolk , Herr Weber went on, and had started out well in the Hitlerjugend , but, like many spirited boys of his age, he clearly felt the urge to test the boundaries of what was permissible. Which was all perfectly normal. But in days like these, such testing could have disproportionate consequences, and it was highly advisable for both teachers and parents to clarify those boundaries wherever they could.
Ilse and Russell agreed that it was.
Herr Weber gave them one wintry smile, and thanked them for coming in.
It was gone seven when Russell reached the Halensee Ringbahn station, and dense layers of cloud hid the moon and stars, promising one of the
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