Zoo Station (John Russell Series #1)

Zoo Station (John Russell Series #1)

by David Downing


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By 1939, Anglo-American journalist John Russell has spent over a decade in Berlin, where his son lives with his mother. He writes human-interest pieces for British and American papers, avoiding the investigative journalism that could get him deported. But as World War II approaches, he faces having to leave his son as well as his girlfriend of several years, a beautiful German starlet.

When an acquaintance from his old communist days approaches him to do some work for the Soviets, Russell is reluctant, but he is unable to resist the offer. He becomes involved in other dangerous activities, helping a Jewish family and a determined young American reporter. When the British and the Nazis notice his involvement with the Soviets, Russell is dragged into the murky world of warring intelligence services.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781616953485
Publisher: Soho Press, Incorporated
Publication date: 05/28/2013
Series: John Russell Series , #1
Pages: 320
Sales rank: 221,333
Product dimensions: 5.00(w) x 7.50(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

David Downing grew up in suburban London. He is the author of numerous works of fiction and nonfiction for both adults and children, including four novels featuring Anglo-American journalist John Russell and the nonfiction work Sealing Their Fate: The Twenty-Two Days That Decided World War II. He lives with his wife in Guildford, England.

Read an Excerpt

THERE WERE TWO HOURS left of 1938. In Danzig it had been snowing on and off all day, and a gang of children was enjoying a snowball fight in front of the grain warehouses which lined the old waterfront.
John Russell paused to watch them for a few moments, then walked on up the cobbled street toward the blue and yellow lights.

The Sweden Bar was far from crowded, and those few faces that turned his way weren’t exactly brimming over with festive spirit. In fact,
most of them looked like they’d rather be somewhere else.

It was an easy thing to want. The Christmas decorations hadn’t been removed, just allowed to drop, and they now formed part of the flooring, along with patches of melting slush, floating cigarette butts,
and the odd broken bottle. The bar was famous for the savagery of its international brawls, but on this particular night the various groups of
Swedes, Finns, and Letts seemed devoid of the energy needed to get one started. Usually a table or two of German naval ratings could be relied upon to provide the necessary spark, but the only Germans present were a couple of aging prostitutes, and they were getting ready to leave.

Russell took a stool at the bar, bought himself a Goldwasser, and glanced through the month-old copy of the New York Herald Tribune which, for some inexplicable reason, was lying there. One of his own articles was in it, a piece on German attitudes to their pets. It was accompanied by a cute-looking photograph of a Schnauzer.

Seeing him reading, a solitary Swede two stools down asked him, in perfect English, if he spoke that language. Russell admitted that he did.

“You are English!” the Swede exclaimed, and shifted his considerable bulk to the stool adjoining Russell’s.

Their conversation went from friendly to sentimental, and sentimental to maudlin, at what seemed like a breakneck pace. Three
Goldwassers later, the Swede was telling him that he, Lars, was not the true father of his children. Vibeke had never admitted it, but he knew it to be true.

Russell gave him an encouraging pat on the shoulder, and Lars sunk forward, his head making a dull clunk as it hit the polished surface of the bar. “Happy New Year,” Russell murmured. He shifted the
Swede’s head slightly to ease the man’s breathing, and got up to leave.

Outside, the sky was beginning to clear, the air almost cold enough to sober him up. An organ was playing in the Protestant Seamen’s
Church, nothing hymnal, just a slow lament, as if the organist were saying a personal farewell to the year gone by. It was a quarter to midnight.

Russell walked back across the city, conscious of the moisture seeping in through the holes in his shoes. There were lots of couples on
Langer Markt, laughing and squealing as they clutched each other for balance on the slippery sidewalks.

He cut over to Breite Gasse and reached the Holz-Markt just as the bells began pealing in the New Year. The square was full of celebrating people, and an insistent hand pulled him into a circle of revelers dancing and singing in the snow. When the song ended and the circle broke up, the Polish girl on his left reached up and brushed her lips against his, eyes shining with happiness. It was, he thought, a betterthan-
expected opening to 1939.

HIS HOTEL'S RECEPTION AREA was deserted, and the sounds of celebration emanating from the kitchen at the back suggested the night staff were enjoying their own private party. Russell gave up the idea of making himself a hot chocolate while his shoes dried in one of the ovens, and took his key. He clambered up the stairs to the third floor,
and trundled down the corridor to his room. Closing the door behind him, he became painfully aware that the occupants of the neighboring rooms were still welcoming in the new year, loud singing on one side,
floor-shaking sex on the other. He took off his shoes and socks, dried his wet feet with a towel, and sank back onto the vibrating bed.

There was a discreet, barely audible tap on his door.

Cursing, he levered himself off the bed and pulled the door open.
A man in a crumpled suit and open shirt stared back at him.

“Mr. John Russell,” the man said in English, as if he were introducing
Russell to himself. The Russian accent was slight, but unmistakable.

“Could I talk with you for a few minutes?”

“It’s a bit late . . .” Russell began. The man’s face was vaguely familiar.
“But why not?” he continued, as the singers next door reached for a new and louder chorus. “A journalist should never turn down a conversation,”
he murmured, mostly to himself, as he let the man in.
“Take the chair,” he suggested.

His visitor sat back and crossed one leg over the other, hitching up his trouser as he did so. “We have met before,” he said. “A long time ago.
My name is Shchepkin. Yevgeny Grigorovich Shchepkin. We. . . .”

“Yes,” Russell interrupted, as the memory clicked into place. “The discussion group on journalism at the Fifth Congress. The summer of twenty-four.”

Shchepkin nodded his acknowledgment. “I remember your contributions,”
he said. “Full of passion,” he added, his eyes circling the room and resting, for a few seconds, on his host’s dilapidated shoes.

Russell perched himself on the edge of the bed. “As you said—a long time ago.” He and Ilse had met at that conference and set in motion their ten year cycle of marriage, parenthood, separation, and divorce. Shchepkin’s hair had been black and wavy in 1924; now it was a close-cropped gray. They were both a little older than the century,
Russell guessed, and Shchepkin was wearing pretty well, considering what he’d probably been through the last fifteen years. He had a handsome face of indeterminate nationality, with deep brown eyes above prominent slanting cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and lips just the full side of perfect. He could have passed for a citizen of most
European countries, and probably had.

The Russian completed his survey of the room. “This is a dreadful hotel,” he said.

Russell laughed. “Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“No. Of course not.”

“So what are you here for?”

“Ah.” Shchepkin hitched his trouser again. “I am here to offer you work.”

Russell raised an eyebrow. “You? Who exactly do you represent?”

The Russian shrugged. “My country. The Writer’s Union. It doesn’t matter. You will be working for us. You know who we are.”

“No,” Russell said. “I mean, no I’m not interested. I—”

“Don’t be so hasty,” Shchepkin said. “Hear me out. We aren’t asking you to do anything which your German hosts could object to.” The
Russian allowed himself a smile. “Let me tell you exactly what we have in mind. We want a series of articles about positive aspects of the Nazi regime.” He paused for a few seconds, waiting in vain for Russell to demand an explanation. “You are not German but you live in Berlin,”
Shchepkin went on. “You once had a reputation as a journalist of the left, and though that reputation has—shall we say—faded, no one could accuse you of being an apologist for the Nazis . . .”

“But you want me to be just that.”

“No, no. We want positive aspects, not a positive picture overall.
That would not be believable.”

Russell was curious in spite of himself. Or because of the Goldwassers.
“Do you just need my name on these articles?” he asked. “Or do you want me to write them as well?”

“Oh, we want you to write them. We like your style—all that irony.”
Russell shook his head: Stalin and irony didn’t seem like much of a match.

Shchepkin misread the gesture. “Look,” he said, “let me put all my cards on the table.”

Russell grinned.

Shchepkin offered a wry smile in return. “Well, most of them anyway.
Look, we are aware of your situation. You have a German son and a German lady-friend, and you want to stay in Germany if you possibly can. Of course if a war breaks out you will have to leave, or else they will intern you. But until that moment comes—and maybe it won’t—
miracles do happen—until it does you want to earn your living as a journalist without upsetting your hosts. What better way than this? You write nice things about the Nazis—not too nice, of course; it has to be credible—but you stress their good side.”

“Does shit have a good side?” Russell wondered out loud.

“Come, come,” Shchepkin insisted, “you know better than that.
Unemployment eliminated, a renewed sense of community, healthy children, cruises for workers, cars for the people. . . .”

“You should work for Joe Goebbels.”

Shchepkin gave him a mock-reproachful look.

“Okay,” Russell said, “I take your point. Let me ask you a question.
There’s only one reason you’d want that sort of article: You’re softening up your own people for some sort of deal with the devil. Right?”

Shchepkin flexed his shoulders in an eloquent shrug.


The Russian grunted. “Why deal with the devil? I don’t know what the leadership is thinking. But I could make an educated guess and so could you.”

Russell could. “The western powers are trying to push Hitler east,
so Stalin has to push him west? Are we talking about a non-aggression pact, or something more?”

Shchepkin looked almost affronted. “What more could there be?
Any deal with that man can only be temporary. We know what he is.”

Russell nodded. It made sense. He closed his eyes, as if it were possible to blank out the approaching calamity. On the other side of the opposite wall, his musical neighbors were intoning one of those Polish river songs which could reduce a statue to tears. Through the wall behind him silence had fallen, but his bed was still quivering like a tuning fork.

“We’d also like some information,” Shchepkin was saying, almost apologetically. “Nothing military,” he added quickly, seeing the look on
Russell’s face. “No armament statistics or those naval plans that Sherlock
Holmes is always being asked to recover. Nothing of that sort. We just want a better idea of what ordinary Germans are thinking. How they are taking the changes in working conditions, how they are likely to react if war comes—that sort of thing. We don’t want any secrets,
just your opinions. And nothing on paper. You can deliver them in person,
on a monthly basis.”

Russell looked skeptical.

Shchepkin ploughed on. “You will be well paid—very well. In any currency, any bank, any country, that you choose. You can move into a better apartment block. . . .”

“I like my apartment block.”

“You can buy things for your son, your girlfriend. You can have your shoes mended.”

“I don’t. . . .”

“The money is only an extra. You were with us once. . . .”

“A long long time ago.”

“Yes, I know. But you cared about your fellow human beings. I
heard you talk. That doesn’t change. And if we go under there will be nothing left.”

“A cynic might say there’s not much to choose between you.”

“The cynic would be wrong,” Shchepkin replied, exasperated and perhaps a little angry. “We have spilled blood, yes. But reluctantly, and in hope of a better future. They enjoy it. Their idea of progress is a
European slave-state.”

“I know.”

“One more thing. If money and politics don’t persuade you, think of this. We will be grateful, and we have influence almost everywhere.
And a man like you, in a situation like yours, is going to need influential friends.”

“No doubt about that.”

Shchepkin was on his feet. “Think about it, Mr. Russell,” he said,
drawing an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and placing it on the nightstand. “All the details are in here—how many words,
delivery dates, fees, and so on. If you decide to do the articles, write to our press attaché in Berlin, telling him who you are, and that you’ve had the idea for them yourself. He will ask you to send him one in the post. The Gestapo will read it, and pass it on. You will then receive your first fee and suggestions for future stories. The last-but-one letters of the opening sentence will spell out the name of a city outside Germany which you can reach fairly easily. Prague, perhaps, or Cracow. You will spend the last weekend of the month in that city, and be sure to make your hotel reservation at least a week in advance. Once you are there,
someone will contact you.”

“I’ll think about it,” Russell said, mostly to avoid further argument.
He wanted to spend his weekends with Paul, and with Effi, his girlfriend,
not the Shchepkins of this world.

The Russian nodded and let himself out. As if on cue, the Polish choir lapsed into silence.

RUSSELL WAS WOKEN BY the scream of a locomotive whistle. Or at least, that was his first impression. Lying there awake all he could hear was a gathering swell of high-pitched voices. It sounded like a school playground full of terrified children.

He threw on some clothes and made his way downstairs. It was still dark, the street deserted, the tramlines hidden beneath a virginal sheet of snow. In the train station booking hall across the street a couple of would-be travelers were hunched in their seats, eyes averted,
praying that they hadn’t strayed into dangerous territory. Russell strode through the unmanned ticket barrier. There were trucks in the goods yard beyond the far platform, and a train stretched out past the station throat. People were gathered under the yellow lights, mostly families by the look of them, because there were lots of children. And there were men in uniform. Brownshirts.

A sudden shrill whistle from the locomotive produced an eerie echo from the milling crowd, as if all the children had shrieked at once.

Russell took the subway steps two at a time, half-expecting to find that the tunnel had been blocked off. It hadn’t. On the far side, he emerged into a milling crowd of shouting, screaming people. He had already guessed what was happening—this was a kindertransport,
one of the trains hired to transport the ten thousand Jewish children that Britain had agreed to accept after Kristallnacht. The shriek had risen at the moment the guards started separating the children from their parents, and the two groups were now being shoved apart by snarling brownshirts. Parents were backing away, tears running down their cheeks, as their children were herded onto the train, some waving frantically, some almost reluctantly, as if they feared to recognize the separation.

Further up the platform a violent dispute was underway between an
SA Truppführer and a woman with a red cross on her sleeve. Both were screaming at the other, he in German, she in northern-accented English.
The woman was beside herself with anger, almost spitting in the brownshirt’s eye, and it was obviously taking everything he had not to smash his fist into her face. A few feet away one of the mothers was being helped to her feet by another woman. Blood was streaming from her nose.

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 Truppführer 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. “He’s not worth screaming at,” he told her in English. “And it won’t do you any good. In fact, you’ll only make matters worse.”

“I . . .” She seemed at a loss for words.

“I know,” Russell said. “You can’t believe people could behave like this. But this lot do. All the time.”

As if to emphasize the point, the Truppführer 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 you’re not careful. The Führer doesn’t 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 alreadyswelling cheek.

“I appealed to his better nature.”

“There must be someone. . . .” she began.

“There isn’t,” he assured her. “The laws don’t apply to Jews, or anyone who acts on their behalf. Just look after the children. They look like they need it.”

“I don’t need you to tell me. . . .”

“I know you don’t. I’m just trying. . . .”

She was looking past his shoulder. “He’s coming back.”

The Truppführer had a Sturmführer with him, a smaller man with round glasses and a chubby face. Out of uniform—assuming they ever took them off—he put them down as a shopkeeper and minor civil servant.
Danzig’s finest.

“Your papers,” the Sturmführer demanded.

“They’re in my hotel room.”

“What is your name?”

“John Russell.”

“You are English?”

“I’m 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 Sturmführer paused for thought, then turned to his subordinate.
“I’m sure my colleague regrets any misunderstanding,” he said meaningfully.

The Truppführer 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 won’t 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.

What People are Saying About This

From the Publisher

"[A]n unconventional thriller ... a finely drawn portrait of the capital of a nation marching in step toward disaster as the Nazi rulers count cadence."
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch 

"There's nothing better than a well-written WWII thriller. Alan Furst continues to prove it, and now Downing has shown he can produce that creepy sense of paranoia along with the best of them."
—Rocky Mountain News 

"If you like your tales spiced with morally ambiguous characters right out of Graham Greene, this is a train you need to be aboard.... A marvelous return to cerebral espionage."
—January Magazine

"A deeply satisfying, suspenseful novel... David Downing's writing is intelligent and strong; his portrayal of issues and conflicts, clear and compelling.... His imagery is so evocative that readers will feel they are watching a classic film, like Casablanca."
Mystery Scene

Customer Reviews

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Zoo Station 3.8 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 71 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
In 1939 Berlin, Englishman John Russell earns a meager living as a reporter in Germany where he has lived for a decade and half. Although he fears what is going on inside his adopted country, John does not want to leave because he loves his young son Paul and the lad¿s mother his girlfriend Effi Koenen and wants to remain with them.----------------- A Soviet operative hires Russell to write several articles to be published in Pravda lauding the Nazi accomplishments, but ignoring their atrocities in order to sell the nonaggression pact to the people. Although he detests extolling the virtues of this criminal regime, John accepts the assignment that will pay a lot. He agrees not because of the money, but he thinks he can help his home country with information. However, the British no longer trust John and the Nazis watch his every move threatening his two loves ones.------------------ As in Russell¿s previous appearance (see SILESIAN STATION), he is an everyday guy caught up in world events thus once again even with plenty of suspense and intrigue, ZOO STATION is more a historical tale than a Nazi Era espionage thriller. David Downing writes how everyman finds the inner vigor and intensity to become a superhero when the motive, opportunity and means enable the person to step up to the plate. In harrowing times, John swings the bat.------------- Harriet Klausner
Leeds-Loiner More than 1 year ago
Iam totally hooked on this whole series, this is the first one and I found it fascinating, how a civilised people can be can be caught up and some taken in by an evil regime.the book is utterly gripping
Lynn Richardson More than 1 year ago
Eighty percent of this story consisted of descriptions of walking or traveling from one place to another with eating in between. Other than Russell, the characters could have been better developed. It was difficult to empathize with the main character and a potentially suspenceful situation just plodded along. Disappointing read.
jbc85 More than 1 year ago
This is a good book, moves along at a good pace, has enough grounding in history to be believable. Thoroughly enjoyed it, will have to look for more books in this series.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I read the whole book expecting something to happen; nothing ever did. Even Russell's smuggling things past the Nazis - which one would expect to be frightening, if not exciting, is dull.
jhmJM More than 1 year ago
If you like Alan Furst, you'll love David Downing.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was so blah I had forgotten i read it and reread it. John Russell is interesting but the story was not. I may try one more.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
This is about the build up to WWII and what it was like for the people in Germany. It suggests and leaves you to think about what it was like. I loved it. I have traveled to Berlin and London so it was easy to picture events and relate. If you like history and wish to never forget the atrocities of Hitler, read and experience the time through these characters.
heidijane on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
This was a tightly written, and gripping thriller, that appears understated at first glance, as it doesn't have car chases and thrilling escapes, but is actually more tense through its very nature that you keep expecting the worst to happen.This is the story of John Russell, an English journalist who has been living in Berlin for a number of years, and has a son by a German mother. It is the beginning of 1939, when things in Nazi Germany are beginning to get more difficult. John is torn between his loyalties to his native country, his loyalties to his son, and his loyalties to his adopted country, despite his hatred for the Nazi regime. He gets sucked into smuggling of papers and people, in an attempt to keep the people he loves safe and secure.This is the first in a series of books, the third of which is due to be published in 2009, so I will certainly be looking out for the second book which picks up chronologically where this books leaves off.
msf59 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
¿ a world more full of weeping than you can understand.¿-YeatsJohn Russell is a British freelance journalist living in Berlin. The year is 1939 and war is rapidly approaching. He has been there for fifteen years. His girlfriend is German and his son, from a previous marriage also lives in the city.One fine day a Soviet agent corners him and asks him to do a few assignments for them. He agrees and soon uncovers various Nazi atrocities and finds himself in some very dangerous waters, especially when the Brits, Americans and the Gestapo want a piece of him too.This is a low-key thriller, more of a slow burn than a conflagration. Nicely written, with a likable lead and some fine dry humor: ¿If the Eskimos had fifty words for snow, the Nazis probably had fifty for dried blood.¿This is the 1st in a series and I am looking forward to the next.
JRexV on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Great story of an English-American journalist struggling to do what is right in Nazi Germany as WWII is about to break out. Provides a stark picture of the realities of Hitler's systematic persecution of Jews and other groups deemed to be unworthy of life and liberty.
Smiler69 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I wouldn't have called myself a spy novel fan before reading this novel in which suspense and mystery are masterfully combined with historical events. The story begins on New Year 1939, exactly nine months before Hitler's invasion of Poland. British journalist John Russell has been living in Berlin since the early 20s, having fought in WWI and doing his best ever since to put the memories of trench warfare behind him. The Nazis have become all-powerful, with 1938's Kristallnacht¿an attack on Germany and Austria's Jews during which more than 1,500 synagogues were ransacked, and more than 250 set on fire¿still very fresh in everyone's memory. Jews are no longer allowed to earn a salary and are turned away from restaurants and most public places, dissidents of the Third Reich are sent to concentration camps and rarely returned to freedom in one piece, if at all. Considering all this, Russell knows he should leave Germany and seek shelter either in Britain or better yet, in the United States, where his American mother is living, but this option doesn't seem possible to him, since his twelve-year-old German son by a German ex-wife, Paul, along with the love of his life, Effy¿a minor film star and local celebrity¿won't likely be able to leave with him. When he is coerced by a Soviet operative who requests he write articles for Russian newspapers, things take an even more dangerous turn for him. One of his neighbours, a young American journalist has hit upon a potentially explosive story¿and one that is likely to get him killed¿a reliable witness has given him documents confirming that the Nazis have been killing off disabled and mentally deficient children as part of their plan to purify the race, while keeping the parents in the dark as to the true cause of death. Russell knows better than to get involved, but before long he feels morally obliged to take on the documents. He's also taken on a private tutoring engagement to try to make ends meet¿teaching English to two Jewish sisters who's parents want to send them to England. He becomes attached to the family and does all he can to help them, even as the father, a doctor who is no longer allowed to treat patients, is taken into a concentration camp under false charges. All these plot elements are woven together in an expert manner, and I found myself invested in the fates of these characters who are trying to survive in very dangerous times. The impeding sense of doom is very real, all the more so because while we know the historical facts, Downing does a commendable job of convincing us that the outcome is as yet unknown by presenting us with credible stories of individuals doing their best to survive. Captivating.
DeltaQueen50 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
In Nazi controlled Germany one spent much of their time keeping their head down and trying not to draw any attention to themselves. In [Zoo Station] David Downing captures this claustrophobic feeling as he tells the story of Anglo-American journalist John Russell, living and working in Berlin, held there by emotional ties. He has a German girlfriend he doesn¿t wish to leave and a half-German son who means the world to him. Being a divorced father means he gets to spend very little time with his son, but if he left or was expelled he would have to leave his son behind.What then does he do when he stumbles on an enormous story, one that the rest of the world really should see to get a true picture of how far the Nazi regime is willing to go to keep their bloodlines pure. Another journalist has already been killed over this story, and the hunt is on for the letters and documents that would reveal their plans. At the same time John agrees to teach English to a couple of Jewish girls whose parents are trying desperately to get the family, or at least the children out of Germany. When the father is accused of a crime and the mother is refused a Visa, how can a man of conscience not get involved?David Downing manages to tell a well paced, complex story that draws the reader along, quietly building the tension as the increasingly murderous nature of this regime is revealed. Hindsight is twenty-twenty and we know what is going to eventually happen, but this is a masterful look at a repressed and frightened people under the control of a government that ruled by terror, unfortunately these people looked the other way and did not want to become involved until it was suddenly too late.
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drh108 More than 1 year ago
Well written. Plausible plot. Page turner. Has you reaching for next in series.
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Great for Mystery lovers.
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