Stettin Station (John Russell series Book 3)
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Book Description Soho Press. Seller Inventory NEW Ships with Tracking Number! Buy with confidence, excellent customer service!. Seller Inventory n. David Downing. Publisher: Soho Press , This specific ISBN edition is currently not available. View all copies of this ISBN edition:. Synopsis About this title In the fall of , Anglo-American journalist John Russell is still living in Berlin, tied to the increasingly alien city by his love for two Berliners: his fourteen-year-old son, Paul, and his longtime girlfriend, Effi.
About the Author : David Downing grew up in suburban London. Buy New View Book.
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europeschool.com.ua/profiles/zixihez/tipos-de-hombre-solo.php Customers who bought this item also bought. Stock Image. Published by Soho Press New Hardcover Quantity Available: 2. Seller Rating:. Published by Soho Press. New Hardcover Quantity Available: 1. Stettin Station David Downing. But then, with the whistle already blowing, the door jerked open and a man climbed in. He was in his forties, she guessed.
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Quite burly, with a weak chin and gold-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a black uniform, but not that one—there were no lightning flashes, only a number on the epaulettes and two stripes on the arms. She could smell the alcohol on his breath and see the animal in his eyes. He was affable enough at first. He tried to talk to Leon, in much the same way the Hitlerjugend had done. But there was nothing genuine in it. And the man kept looking up at her, as if for approval, the glances soon slipping from her face to her breasts.
He took out a silver flask and took a swig. He was having trouble keeping his eyes open.
Now you get some sleep, and I will too. It was the story she always told, and true as far as Leon knew. But telling it this time had been a mistake—Leon was asleep, and she could have claimed a living protector, one who was waiting on the platform at Breslau. Someone powerful like an SS officer, someone to make thisman think twice. He took another swig, then offered her the flask. She politely declined.
Perhaps I avenged your husband—who knows?
Of course. The human touch. We have much to do in Breslau tomorrow. She closed her eyes, ears alert for any sound of movement. She thought she could feel his stare, but maybe it was just imagination. She felt weary to the bone herself.
It would be so wonderful to fall asleep and wake up in Breslau The bulge of an erection was straining at his trousers. She brushed a finger along the bulge, fighting back nausea. She got to her feet and, standing with her back to him, began unbuttoning the blouse. Leon was fast asleep, his tinplate engine wedged between him and the back of the seat.
A gasp of agony came out of his throat as his hands reached up to his eyes. She stood there for a second, suddenly uncertain, but the moment he tried to rise she hit him again, this time on the side of the head, and down he went between the seats, his head and shoulders against the door. He was unconscious, maybe even dead. And Leon, she saw, had slept through it all. Then, kneeling on the corner seat, she depressed the door handle until the door sprang open. Head and shoulders dropped into a curtain of rain, but the rest showed no sign of following them out, until she crawled back along the seat, got behind his feet, and started pushing with all her might.
For several long moments nothing seemed to move, and then with a rush the body was gone. It took her longer still to pull the door shut, and the bang when she did was loud enough to wake the boy. Tomorrow she would need an explanation, she realised. Not for the man, who might have got off, but for the damage to his favourite toy. A middle-aged man in uniform was hectoring two boys of around twelve, jabbing his finger at first one and then the other to emphasise his indignation. The boys wore suitably downcast expressions, but one was still clutching a fearsome-looking catapult behind his back.
Once the adult had run out of useful advice and stalked haughtily away, the two youngsters raced off in the opposite direction, giggling fit to bust. Russell somehow doubted that they had seen the error of their ways. He took another sip of the still-scalding tea, and went back to his News Chronicle. Palestine, Java, India, Egypt The British press, like the British public, might want a new world at home, but they were in no mood to relinquish the old one abroad. The sports page was still full of the Moscow Dynamo tour, which had begun so inauspiciously the previous weekend. Several of the Soviet players had concluded that they were being imprisoned, and had refused to leave their bus.
It seemed as if things had improved since then—yesterday the visitors had been taken to the White City dog-track, where only the Magic Eye photomachine had denied them a rouble-earning win. Russell looked at his watch—as usual, Effi was late. Clearing a new patch in the condensation he could see the queue outside the cinema already receding up Park Street.
He gulped down the rest of his tea and went to join it, hurrying to beat the crowd pouring off a pair of trolleybuses. The visibility on Camden High Street was worse than it had been twenty minutes earlier, and the air seemed twice as cold and damp. Several people in the queue were stamping their feet and clapping their hands, but most seemed in surprisingly high spirits.
Only six months had passed since the end of the war in Europe, and perhaps the novelty of peace had not quite worn off. Or maybe they were just happy to be out of their overcrowded houses. But then Effi had chosen it, and it was her turn.