Code Name Hélène

by Ariel Lawhon

  Stephanie grimaces. This is the one area in which she defers to her Yugoslavian heritage. The woman cannot stand the French habit of taking pets in public. “That is disgusting,” she says.

  “He’s hungry.”

  “Then put it down and let it eat off the floor. Like a proper dog.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but a champagne glass magically appears on the table in front of me.

  “What is this?” A different waiter stands beside me dutifully.

  “Le soixante-quinze,” he says, “courtesy of that gentleman in the corner.”

  The French 75. It is the Pont Royal’s signature cocktail and the most expensive item on their drinks menu. I have always wanted to try one.

  Clever man. This drink is an invitation—and an elegant one at that. Much as I sensed Picon this afternoon, I can feel Henri Fiocca staring at me. I lift the champagne glass and turn to consider him again. I take a sip. My mouth is instantly awash in the bright notes of gin, lemon, and champagne. Expensive. Top-shelf. Henri Fiocca is showing off. The bubbles tickle my nose and I cannot help but smile.

  “Tell me about him,” I say to Stephanie without taking my eyes off this graceful stranger.

  She obliges. “Français. Obviously. A good bit older than you, I think. Don’t let that alarm you. The best ones are always older. Comes from a wealthy family from Marseille. Notorious with the women.”

  She recites this curriculum vitae even as I take another appreciative sip. He has dark, curly hair, brown eyes, a square jaw, and the sort of cheekbones that could make a girl weep with envy. Broad shoulders. He’s sitting down so I can’t tell for sure, but I suspect he’s quite tall. Taller than me, at least, and this definitely works in his favor. I absolutely hate having to wear flats just because a man didn’t have the good sense to grow a few inches taller.

  Fiocca stares back, waiting. Hopeful. Patient. And this surprises me, because at first glance I would have taken him for the sort of man who likes to pounce. But no, he’s letting me decide. And I am so very tempted. One more sip and I close my eyes to relish the swirling citrus fizz on my tongue. I am about to stand and make my way to Fiocca’s table, when Stephanie demands my attention.

  “Nancy,” she says, and there is a note of urgency in her voice that has me turning back to her.

  “What?”

  She’s staring at the door that leads onto the terrace. And—ha!—there’s no mistaking the man who stands there. The Count has convinced him to come after all. What part Stephanie herself played is still unclear. She could have convinced or seduced, blackmailed or charmed, for all I know. There’s no telling with this ridiculous miracle-working woman.

  “He’s here,” she breathes, as though she can’t quite believe it herself.

  Janos Lieberman certainly knows how to make an entrance. Or perhaps it is that he, himself, is so striking he commands attention. Janos doesn’t have a unique face, per se. He’s pleasant-looking but not remarkable. Dark hair. Dark eyes. Dark stubble across his solemn face. It’s the jagged pink scar cutting its way from earlobe to eyeball that makes him instantly recognizable. The whip split him clean to the bone and nearly took out his left eye in the process. Even from this distance the stitch marks are still evident, little pocked craters at even intervals along his cheekbone. The scar looks like a broken zipper, and he will be forever marked by its ferocity. You cannot help but stare when you see him.

  Stephanie is on her feet, halfway to the door before I can collect my wits. And then she’s greeting him, kissing both cheeks, and leading him back to the table before the Gallimards can pounce.

  This is the man I have come to meet, not Henri Fiocca—appealing as he may be—so I turn back to the Frenchman and tip up my glass, downing the rest of this glorious French 75 in three luxurious gulps. I give him a polite nod of gratitude and dismissal.

  Henri Fiocca raises an eyebrow, then offers a sigh of disappointment. His shoulders drop, and I find this both amusing and sad. Such a pity. I turn back to the table, where Stephanie and our guest now stand before me. This is important. I give them my full attention.

  “Nancy,” she says, practically quivering with excitement, “meet Janos Lieberman.”

  He extends his hand and I receive it gladly. It’s an enormous hand, dry and callused and oddly cool despite the warm afternoon. “Thank you for coming,” I say.

  Janos takes his seat but says nothing.

  “Don’t worry, I warned him about you.” Stephanie gives me that smile, the one that could be an apology or a declaration of war. Then she hands him the glass of rosé. “Here, I took the liberty of ordering you some wine.”

  It’s an interesting choice of drink for a man, but not without calculation on Stephanie’s part. Men are particular about their liquor. And most people have a strong preference between red or white wine. Rosé in late afternoon is the easiest, safest thing to order for a total stranger.

  He takes it without question. “Thank you.”

  Stephanie situates herself between the Gallimards and our guest. She’s trying to block their view, to prevent them from studying his scar, but half the men on this terrace have recognized him already. There is a buzz in the air. They know he isn’t just one of the countless Austrians who have spilled across the border into France this year, but rather the face of Vienna’s persecution epidemic.

  Hearst insists that, in my articles, I refer to men like Janos as “political refugees,” but the truth is they are Jews, running scared. This one in particular. He’s got that hunted look in his eyes. Clothes wrinkled from wear. Cuticles picked raw. He needs a shave. Hell, he needs a friend. It was Janos who insisted we meet in a public place, after all, and I can’t say that I blame him. But I can tell by the way his hands are shaking that he is afraid to talk. The Gallimards know it too. Some are wide-eyed with interest. Others show thinly veiled disgust or horror. Many try to hide their animosity behind pursed lips and lit cigars. It’s no wonder. Janos has chosen to share his story with me, and they have reason to envy that fact.

  “They recognize me from that damn photograph,” Janos says, his Austrian accent heavy, as he glances around the terrace. He sets a hand self-consciously against his left cheek. I expect him to wince at the touch, but he doesn’t.

  Janos lifts his glass from the table and I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he takes a sip of the wine. It makes him look vulnerable. Exposed. Like a teenage boy trying to be braver than he is. After a moment he shakes his head. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.”

  And just like that, I can feel my story slipping away. I do the first thing that comes to mind. “Look at me,” I tell him.

  He does.

  I set the pad of my index finger against his scar. My touch is curious, not seductive, like a doctor examining a wound, and I hold his gaze the entire time. “Who did this to you?”

  “The Brownshirts.”

  “And who took that photograph?”

  Janos shudders, as though the piece inside him that holds everything together has broken loose. “It doesn’t matter. He’s dead now.”

  Instinctively I lean toward this opening that he has created. Here is my story and I am determined to catch it as it falls from his lips. I can see him filling his lungs, gathering courage, and I do not turn away, not as he braces himself, not even when one of the Gallimards makes a crude remark behind me.

  “Please,” I say. “Tell me what happened in Vienna.”

  * * *

  Henri

  Damn.

  He likes the way she laughs.

  He likes the rest as well, but it’s her laugh that has him standing with one foot in the street and one foot on the curb, staring at the terrace, where she sits with her friends. No one could blame him for waiting an hour longer, hoping she would change her mind and accept his company after all. Henri waited until he fel
t like a fool and then he decided to leave. But now she’s at it again, head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut, palm flat against her heart, that little dog in her lap, laughing as though she has an endless supply, as though laughter is a thing that can be wasted, scattered wantonly in the street. It fills the air—rich and lusty—and he’d go back in and buy her another drink if he thought it would do any good. But no. He offered, and she declined. He likes to think she was a bit sad about it, however. Perhaps he flatters himself. Still, Henri hesitates, and she must sense it, because that beguiling woman turns and finds him lingering here at the corner.

  He nods once, embarrassed.

  She smiles, again, and in the moment before she turns back to her friends, those pale mischievous eyes tighten at the corners and he sees something flash in them.

  Curiosity.

  But a blink is all it takes to break the connection, and just like that his opportunity is lost. She looks away and he leaves for good.

  Damn.

  * * *

  VIENNA

  St. Stephen’s Square

  “What are we looking for?” Frank Gilmore asks as we make our way through a tangle of vehicles that have stopped outside Vienna’s famed St. Stephen’s Square. I look up, toward the great, Gothic towers of the Stephansdom, and I push forward, intent. Janos said it happened near this cathedral, the very place where Mozart and many of the Hapsburgs were married. Such a violent act for a holy place.

  “A man with a whip,” I say over my shoulder.

  His legs are longer than mine and he catches up quickly. “Nancy, are you sure—”

  “It was a long train ride, Frank. If you wanted to back out, you should have done it twelve hours ago.”

  “And miss the chance for a romantic getaway with Nancy Wake? Never!”

  I snort. “This isn’t a date.”

  “It could be.” There’s laughter in Frank’s eyes when he winks at me. “I am an equal-opportunity romantic.”

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is incorrigible.”

  Long-limbed. Freckled. Toothy. Hair the color of old potatoes. Frank Gilmore is a caricature of himself. The combination of his physical attributes makes you think he should have been a redhead but swam the wrong direction in the gene pool. I’ve always suspected he’s a bit disappointed about this. I think he would have worn that ginger badge with honor. Regardless, Frank is one of the best photographers in Paris. I brought him because he’s fearless. Rumor has it he once hung upside down from the girders of the Pont de Passy just to get a picture of King George as he sailed beneath on his royal yacht, the Britannia. Turns out George was napping under a canopy and all you could see in the photo were his swollen feet. It was never published, but Frank became a legend. The print now hangs above the toilet in his flat. Frank says it makes him laugh every time he uses the loo. It’s one of the many reasons I find him endearing.

  Like me, Frank is a freelancer. And if I’ve learned anything since bluffing my way onto the roster at Hearst, it’s that we carrion birds of the publishing world must flock together. He didn’t hesitate when I called him yesterday and proposed this adventure.

  After a few minutes of weaving our way through traffic and onlookers, Frank and I make it to Vienna’s Old Square. There’s a huge crowd of people standing in a circle before the Stephansdom and somewhere, in the middle of it, a woman is screaming.

  I look at Frank and he nods. He lifts the camera from where it hangs on a strap around his neck and slips into the crowd on my right.

  I am average height and average weight, but still, it takes me a long time to push my way through the wall of bodies to see what’s going on. I’m not the sort of woman you’d call angular, but I do have sharp elbows and I put them to good use as I maneuver my way into the open. I am struck by three things at once.

  The bonfire.

  The Brownshirts.

  And the waterwheel.

  The fire burns right in the middle of the square, fifty feet from the cathedral steps, filling the air with rancid smoke and turning the ancient cobblestones black. Around it saunter seven Brownshirts holding rifles. Two more Brownshirts heap contents from one of the nearby shops onto the fire. They are the Sturmabteilung, Hitler’s private military, the men he brought with him to power, the men who answer to him alone. And here they are, just as Janos said, tormenting Vienna’s Jewish shopkeepers.

  No, not tormenting.

  Torturing.

  An old woman is tied spread-eagle to the massive waterwheel. It rattles and clanks through the square in a large, undulating circle, pushed along on each side by a Brownshirt. They turn her round and round as she cries and screams. Her long salt-and-pepper braids swish back and forth across her shoulders as her shawl drags on the ground beside her. I am ashamed to admit that I had not believed Janos. Not truly. His story seemed so outrageous, so unbelievable, two nights ago at the Pont Royal.

  He must have known how hard it would be for someone like me to truly understand. And I think he must have pitied my ignorance as we sat there warm and fed and content. To me this was a story to pursue. But to Janos it was a nightmare to escape.

  “Go to Vienna’s Old Square on a Friday afternoon,” he said. “They like to begin their spectacles a few hours before Shabbat begins. It gets worse every week.”

  Finally, the waterwheel rolls to a stop and I am frozen, immobile, as a Brownshirt steps forward. He looks like the sort of man who was laughed at as a child, teased mercilessly, as though he’s been assembled with spare parts and put together in haste. Large head on narrow shoulders. Sparse hair combed away from a high forehead. Eyebrows so thick and black it looks as though they’ve been drawn in charcoal by a child’s clumsy hand. Lipless mouth. Sunken eyes with dark circles beneath. Huge ears with long lobes that slide right into the sides of his neck. The rest of him is hidden beneath that brown uniform and those tall brown boots, so I cannot guess at his height or strength. But in his hand there is a whip, and I know that this is the man I have come to find.

  He walks toward the waterwheel and the woman tied to it. I expect there to be some speech, some bit of pomp and circumstance. A warning, at least. But no, he simply attacks. I hear the whip before I see the strike. There is a single crack, like the sound of breaking rock, and then a red stripe opens across the old woman’s back, splitting her dress diagonally, splitting the air with her screams.

  The man has found his rhythm now and he strikes again. Then again. And again.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Crack.

  Four red lashes across her back. There is a rushing in my ears and a rising in my stomach. I don’t know what to do. I stand in silent, horrified witness along with every other person in the square. Two Brownshirts still hold the wheel upright but the others pace in front of the crowd, rifles up and ready, waiting, hoping someone will intervene. They are eager for an opportunity to shoot.

  The man with the whip begins to shout, cracking the air with emphasis. “Juden Verboten! Juden Verboten! Juden Verboten!”

  Jews forbidden.

  Jews forbidden.

  Jews forbidden.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath beside me but I do not turn to look. I force myself to be still, to listen instead. And I hear the truth. Most of the shopkeepers in this square are Jewish. They will all be driven out, or worse. They are not welcome. This fact is written across the square, in red paint, now that I have the eyes to see it, now that I look beyond that wheel. Over half the shop windows are dripping with red paint, Juden daubed on them in a sloppy, hateful scrawl.

  The two soldiers beside the wheel make one last half rotation, leaving the woman upside down, panting heavily, body stiff, braced for another blow. Her dress has fallen down around her waist, and her bunched, torn undergarments are on display before the crowd. It is no
t enough that they have wounded her, they intend to shame her as well. We can all see the pale skin of her thighs, the trembling of her muscles, and the blue, corded veins that are knotted in bunches at the back of her knees.

  “Juden Verboten,” the man says, loudly, clearly one last time.

  “Who is that?” I ask the shopkeeper beside me, not taking my eyes from the Brownshirt in charge. I pray this stranger speaks enough English to understand me, and I make a mental note to brush up on basic German.

  “Obersturmführer Wolff.”

  “Obersturmführer?” The Germanic languages are a mystery to me, all hard edges and rough grunts. I don’t know what this word means.

  He spits onto the cobblestones. “Nazi.”

  Oh. Oh.

  Slowly, carefully, I pull my notepad and pen from my skirt pocket and begin writing. It’s the only thing I can do. I write because I am afraid I will forget the specifics, remembering only the horror. I write details. Brownshirts. Whips. Waterwheels. I write about red paint and red welts. I write names and ranks the best I can remember and spell them. I write without ever looking at my notepad because that is too conspicuous. I let my hand travel messily across the page, searching for Frank, praying he has captured this on film. I scan each face, looking for his close-cropped potato head.

  The square is now still, and that’s what reveals Frank in the end. But not just to me. The man they call Wolff hears the shutter of Frank’s camera at the same moment I do. It’s an unmistakable sound in this deathly quiet air. Frank, trying to get one last photo.

  Chunk. Click.

  It is the sound of proof being exposed, and Wolff’s large, round head follows the telltale noise to the doorway of an empty storefront where Frank has taken refuge. He is squatting on the threshold to get a better angle, his entire body leaning forward. He is the last person to realize that Wolff has seen him, and all I can think about is how Janos said the man who took his picture is dead.