The Polish Officer ns-3

by Alan Furst

  The following day, at five in the morning, in a patter of spring rain, they were on the road. They pedaled out of Vannes with some forty other cyclists, all headed to work at the fish-oil plant, at the small machine shops and boat-repair yards found in every port, some of them no doubt going the twelve miles to the air base, where the pilots of the Kampfgeschwader 100 also worked. The riders were silent—it was too early in the morning to be among strangers. Now and then a bicycle bell rang, two or three times an automobile, no doubt carrying somebody important and German, went roaring past.

  De Milja let the crowd get ahead of them so they could talk. “Now this curve,” he said, “is a possibility. To the right, the pine forest provides some cover. To the left, the rock makes it impossible for the bus to swerve, to simply drive away from the attack.”

  They rode on, Jeanne-Marie making mental notes about the road, the terrain, the time of day—everything that would have to be factored into an assault plan. “Of course,” de Milja said, “it will be up to the officer leading the attack to make the decision—exactly where to conceal his firing points and everything else. But there are locations along the route that he ought to at least consider.”

  Up ahead, a warning bell rang and a railwayman lowered a safety gate. Then a locomotive sounded its whistle and a slow freight came rumbling across the road. De Milja and Jeanne-Marie pulled up to the crowd of cyclists, standing patiently on one foot while the boxcars rolled past. A dark green sports car, its hood secured by a leather strap, stopped next to de Milja. The driver and his companion were young men, wearing good tweed jackets and pigskin gloves. “Ach du lieber!” the driver said, his hand clapped over his eyes. What had struck him blind was a girl in a tight skirt astride a bicycle seat. The other man shook his head in wonder, said in German, “Sweet sugar—come fly through the clouds with me.” The girl ignored them.

  The freight train moved off into the distance, the railwayman raised the gate. The driver of the sports car gunned his engine, the cyclists scurried out of the way, and the two Germans went tearing down the road, an echo of speed shifts and screaming engine lingering after them.

  5:30 p.m. The first minutes of darkness. Outlines blurred, faces indistinct. People were out; coming home from work, going visiting, shopping. A couple, even strangers, moved easily along the street, unremarkable, nobody really saw them.

  De Milja took Jeanne-Marie by the arm for a moment, guided her into a long alley, a crooked lane no more than three feet wide with lead-sheathed drain tiles running down both sides and crumbling stone arches above. It was chaos back here; stake fences concealing garden plots, leaning sheds and rusty tin roofs, curved tiles stacked against walls, dripping pipes, sheets hung to dry on lines spanning the alley—a thousand years of village life concealed from the public street.

  Finding the back entrance to a particular shop should have been a nightmare, but no, in fact the Germans had done him a favor. The back door of the confiserie was chained and padlocked—the same equipment they’d used for the front door.

  The chain ran from a rusty cleat in the wall to the iron door handle. It wasn’t a system Mademoiselle Herault had ever used, and it didn’t work now. De Milja took an iron bar from under his coat, slotted one end next to the chain in the wall cleat, used a piece of broken brick as a fulcrum, and put his weight against it. Out came the cleat with a puff of dust, a chunk of old masonry still attached to it. Next the door lock. He threw a shoulder into the door, but nothing happened. Drew a foot up and drove his heel against the lock plate—same result. Finally he worked the sharp end of the bar into the dried-out wood between the door and the jamb, levered it apart until he could get the end of the bar past the inside edge of the door, used every bit of strength he had. Nothing at first, then it gave a little, finally there was a loud squeak and the sound of ripping wood as the lock tore free. He swung the door open, waited a beat, stepped inside.

  What he needed to see he saw immediately—the dusk of closed spaces was broken up by shadowy light from the doorway, and the last two years had taught him to see in the dark. There was no malice or evil in the confiserie, just a professional job, cold and thorough.

  They had searched: dumped the canisters of flour into the stone sink, then the sugar, the salt, the baking soda, whatever else had been on the shelf, stirring through each new addition. They would have used a thin metal rod, sifting, probing, hunting the spool of microfilm or the miniature camera, the book marked for ciphering or a set of crystals for a radio. De Milja walked into the office, every step a brittle crunch—they’d spilled a bin of hard candies on the floor, and their boots had ground them into powdery shards of red and green.

  Mademoiselle Herault’s office was torn to pieces. Not a piece of paper to be seen, upholstery fabric sliced from the bottom of an upside-down chair, drawers pulled from the desk, then the desk flipped over, smashing the drawers beneath it. In the store itself, the glass had been kicked out of the counters and the wooden frame torn apart— spies were diabolical when it came to hiding things. The searchers had unwrapped the chocolates and squashed them—ants were at work on the result, tossed atop the shards of glass.

  By the cash register, where Veronique the clerk had spent her days, de Milja smelled something strange. Even amid the orange essence and vanilla and peppermint and God knew what else—something strong and particular, like flowers. He knelt, the smell got stronger. A small glass bottle, in pieces, half-hidden by the leg of a counter. Candy clerk’s perfume, he thought. They had stood her against a wall, searched through her purse, and it had fallen out, or perhaps they’d thrown it on the floor.

  No more than a minute inside the shop, but too long.

  Jeanne-Marie called in a whisper, de Milja was up and out in one motion. A flashlight bobbed at the other end of the alley. He kicked the door shut with his foot and embraced Jeanne-Marie in the same instant. Passionately, pressing his mouth against hers. She made a small sound of distaste, stiffened, tried to pull away from him just as the flashlight pinned them both.

  The voice was a growl. “What’s this?”

  It was the eternal voice of the flic, the cop, tired and sour beyond redemption. “Romance?” it wondered.

  De Milja shielded his eyes from the light, squinting helplessly as he did so, a profoundly virtuous gesture. “We have no place to meet,” he said.

  A moment while that was considered. “Well, you can’t meet here.”

  The light was lowered. De Milja heard the little pop of a holster flap snapped back into place. “Take a walk,” the cop said. He sensed something, but he wished not to know about it. He simply made it vanish so it no longer troubled him.

  They took local trains out of Vannes that night. Jeanne-Marie back to the country house, de Milja to the avenue Hoche.

  It was, inevitably, spring in Paris. The first chestnut trees bloomed at the entrances to the métro, where warm air flowed up the staircases. Greece was taken in April, so was Yugoslavia. Belgrade, pressured by tank columns on three sides, was surrendered to a German captain and nine enlisted men who had bluffed their way through the defense lines. The United States had frozen German and Italian assets held in American banks.

  For Parisians, daily existence was a struggle, and people simply tried to stay out of the way of the Germans. There had, in the first year of occupation, been one execution—Jacques Bonsergent, shot for jostling a German officer in the Gare Saint-Lazare.

  The mood in the cafés was now resignation, the defeat by the Germans called the debacle. De Milja found this a curious expression once he thought about it—just the sort of linguistic trap that the French liked to construct. It meant a complete rout, a total collapse. But somewhere in the spirit of the word was a touch of the absurd, the comic: it wasn’t anyone’s fault, no point in assigning blame, it was just that everything went wrong all at once—a moment of Divine slapstick and poof, we lost the country.

  For de Milja, contacts in the Polish community had finally begun to pay off. He had enl
isted a railroad clerk and a miner’s daughter from Alsace—both contacts made through Polish clergy at local churches. The value of priests now became particularly apparent. They had political views, strong ones often enough, and were the keepers of community secrets. They knew who drank, who made money, and who lost it. They knew who the collaborators were, and who the patriots were. People, perhaps resisting an urge to gossip over the back fence, told the priest everything. Sometimes in church, more often in the parlor or at the vegetable stall. That couldn’t be wrong, could it? Heaven knew all your secrets anyhow.

  The Alsatian girl, very studious and shy, in her early twenties, came to live in Paris at de Milja’s request. He assigned her the code name Vera, then, in a slow and curiously difficult effort, tried to place her in a job in a German bureau. She spoke excellent German, perfect French, it should have been easy. “I have never felt French, exactly,” she told her interviewers. “Always we spoke German in my house.” She was offered two jobs, both clerical and meaningless, in the office that handled payments flowing from France to Germany—400 million francs a day, the cost of the German military and civilian administration. After all, one couldn’t expect one’s country to be occupied for free.

  With de Milja’s coaching, Vera extracted herself from those offers, moved to a pension, and waited patiently.

  26 April 1941. 3:20 a.m. Le Chabanais.

  Paris’s finest brothel. Draperies, brocades, velvets, and cut crystal— such weight as to suggest a thick and impenetrable wall of discretion. Waitresses in golden slippers served osetra caviar. In one of the private rooms, the Slovakian coal dealer Anton Stein had invited the Comte de Rieu and the art dealer Labarthe to be his guests for a late supper and whatever other diversions they might enjoy. They had a peaceful, relaxed, gentlemen’s evening of it.

  The count had been entertained, in one of the upstairs bedrooms, by a “Hungarian countess” and her “Spanish maid”—the glass of wine tipped over, the slipper applied, then forgiveness, at length and in many ways. The count returned, shaking his head in wonder at what the world had to offer him. Lit a Camel cigarette, drank a sip of champagne, rested his head on the back of a chair and blew two seemingly endless plumes of smoke at the chandelier.

  No need to talk, a grand silence—a moment to contemplate human desire and the masks it wore. De Milja had seen the countess; hair dark red, Magyar cheekbones, long, delicate fingers. But a temper, as you might expect. Not the one to stand for a maid’s clumsy behavior.

  The count smiled at his host by way of saying thank you. “The pleasures of excess,” he said quietly. Labarthe snored lightly on a settee, head fallen to one side.

  Stein raised his glass in a silent toast to the count’s words. He drank, then after a moment said, “I was in Alsace recently. Stumbled on treasure.”

  “Let me guess: a Rhine maiden?”

  “Oh no. Completely the opposite.”

  “Really?”

  Stein nodded yes. Opened a tortoiseshell case and selected a small, pale-leafed cigar. He rolled it between his fingers, then snapped a silver lighter until a flame appeared. “Mmm,” he said, putting the lighter away. “Spinster type—to look at her you’d never imagine.”

  “Oh, I can imagine.”

  “Little more champagne?” “Not just yet, thanks.” “Anyhow, I have her here. In a pension.” “Can’t get enough?” “That’s it.” He paused a moment. “Thing is, she’s bored. Nothing

  to do all day.” “Why not a job? Coming from there, she must speak German.” “She does, she does. Wants to work for Jeder Einmal.” “Why there?” “I think she worked at Eszterhazy, the travel agency, before the

  war.”

  “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I don’t know anyone there, exactly, but Kappler can do it in a minute. I’ll call him Monday, if you like.”

  “Would you? That would certainly help me out.” “Consider it done.” From somewhere in the vast building came the sound of a violin. It

  was playing a folk melody, slow and melancholy, something eastern, perhaps Russian. Both men listened attentively. Labarthe stopped snoring, mumbled something, then fell back asleep. “Remarkable, the way life is now,” the count said. “Untold stories.” Then, after a moment, he said, “A spinster?” He meant, in a rather delicate way, that such an appetite in Stein was unexpected.

  Stein shrugged. “Quite religious,” he said. “She is like a storm.”

  Transmission of 12 May. 1:25 a.m.

  To Director. Source: Albert Railway Bureau designates departures 21 May/26 May. 3rd class and livestock cars making up at Reims yards. Route: Reims/Metz/ Trier/Würzburg/Prague/Breslau/Cracow/Tarnow. Including: Artillery regiment 181, Fusilier Regiment 202 (Stettin), Grenadier Regiments 80, 107, 253 (Wiesbaden). Grenadier regiments 151, 162, and 176 (Wehrkreis X, Hamburg).

  Of 21 Divisions in France as of 4/22/41, total of 9 (135,000 men) now moved east.

  De Milja’s railroad clerk. Fussy little man, fierce patriot. Dead drop at the Église Sainte Thérèse—Albert to the six o’clock mass, de Milja at ten. The take from Wehrmacht rail scheduling made de Milja’s heart lift. Great numbers of troops—and their vehicles, weapons, files, and draft horses—on the move from conquered France and Belgium to conquered Poland. That meant Russia. And that meant the end. There was in Wilno a historical marker, alongside the Moscow road, that read “On 28 June, 1812, Napoleon Bonaparte passed this way with 450,000 men.” Then, on the other side, approached from the east, was a different message: “On 9 December, 1812, Napoleon Bonaparte passed this way with 900 men.”

  Could Adolf Hitler—shrewd, cunning—do such a foolish thing? Maybe not. De Milja had observed that the failed Operation Sealion had been undertaken without a feint, without deception. If the Germans were going to try again, June would be the time to lay a false trail, such as the shipment of men and arms to the east.

  To find out, de Milja had Albert on the one hand, Vera on the other. The Comte de Rieu had been true to his word, Vera was hired as a clerk—“But in six months, we’ll see about something better”—by the Jeder Einmal in Paris organization. This was Goebbels at work, the phrase meant Paris for Everybody Once. A morale builder for the military, and a spy’s dream. Everybody meant just that—from privates to generals, two weeks’ leave in romantic, naughty Paris. The brothels and the nightclubs were fully staffed, the inflated Occupation Reichsmark would buy an astonishing mound of gifts for Momma and Poppa and the ever-faithful Helga.

  The German empire now ran from Norway to North Africa, from Brest, France, to Brest Litovsk in Poland. Getting all those people in and out of Paris was a logistical nightmare, but not for the efficient Jeder organization, a vast travel agency coordinating hotels, barracks, and train reservations. They simply had to know—thus Vera had to know—where everybody was: the location of every unit in the German war machine. Where it was strong, and where it wasn’t.

  French students still went to university—a privilege not enjoyed in Poland, where by Himmler’s order the slave population was to learn to count on its fingers and acknowledge orders with affirmative grunts. De Milja’s response was to hide one of his W/T operators in a tiny room in the student quarter of the fifth arrondissement. The agent seemed to belong there, with a beard tracing the outline of his jaw, a piercing student gaze, and hair he cut himself.

  It was in the tiny room, with pictures of philosophers pinned to the walls, that de Milja learned, from a Sixth Bureau transmission on 17 May, that the operation in Vannes had to be completely reworked. The Pathfinder pilots of Kampfgeschwader 100 now drove their own cars to the airfield rather than going by bus.

  And it was in the tiny room that de Milja learned, from a Sixth Bureau transmission of 19 May, that he’d been fired.

  It wasn’t put that way—the word relieved was not used—but that was what it meant. De Milja’s reaction was first shock, then anguished disbelief. Why? How could this happen? What had he done wrong?

  “Is this correct?” he ask
ed the operator.

  “I believe so,” the man said. He was embarrassed, did not meet de Milja’s eyes. “Of course I can request retransmission. Or clarification.”

  But it was already quite clear. The reference to de Milja by his assigned cipher, rendezvous on a certain beach on a certain night, to be transported back to Sixth Bureau London headquarters for reassignment. Prepare all field agents and technical staff for a change of resident officer.

  He did that. Vera didn’t like it. Albert nodded grimly, war was war. He could say nothing to Lisette Roubier, to Zimmer at the coal company, to the people who were simply there in his life as he was in theirs. The French placed great store by daily encounters, small friendships carried on a few minutes at a time, and he would have liked to have said good-bye.

  Lost people, lost money. Huysmanns coal, probably the apartment on the avenue Hoche, gone. Abandoned. Intelligence services had to operate in that fashion, build and walk away, it was in the nature of their existence. But de Milja knew, in a hungry city, what that money would buy.

  A certain night in June, sweet and sad, he chased Madame Roubier around the bed with real conviction. “Oh my,” she said, and scowled with pleasure. Then it was time to go and he kissed her on the lips and she put her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Pulling back a little to have a look at him, her eyes were shiny in the peach light that made her pretty. She knew, she knew. What, exactly? Could you fool a woman you made love to? Well, of course you could, he thought. Well, of course you couldn’t.

  The tears never quite came. A French woman understood love. Its beginning, and its ending. “Shall I see you tomorrow?”

  “Not quite sure,” he said. “I’ll telephone in the afternoon.”

  “If not, then some other time,” she said.