by F. R. Tallis
‘Lorenz . . .’ Friedrich repeated the name without confidence. Recognition, when it came, made him flinch. ‘Lorenz!’ He smiled nervously at his companions and rose from his chair. ‘May I introduce Kapitänleutnant Siegfried Lorenz.’ He then swept his arm over a floral centerpiece—‘Herr Ehrlichmann’—and extended the movement to include the two women, ‘Mademoiselles Descoteaux and Lévesque.’ Lorenz bowed. ‘Well, well,’ Friedrich continued. ‘How unexpected—so, you are in Paris.’
‘Could we talk?’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘As you can see,’ Friedrich indicated his group, ‘that isn’t possible.’
‘I’ll be brief.’
‘Kapitänleutnant . . .’
‘Very brief.’
Friedrich considered his options for a few moments and then nodded. The two men walked away from the table and stood by the bar area. Lorenz noticed that Friedrich was unsteady. He had obviously imbibed a large quantity of champagne.
‘You know what happened?’ said Lorenz.
‘Yes,’ Friedrich replied. ‘Of course I know what happened.’
‘You allowed an armed man to board my boat.’
‘I can assure you it wasn’t intentional.’
‘Were you personally responsible?’
Friedrich frowned and raised an admonitory finger. His death’s-head ring was clearly visible. ‘I don’t know what you hope to achieve by importuning me in this discourteous manner, but I would strongly advise—’
‘I demand an explanation!’ Lorenz cut in. He was not going to be intimidated.
‘May I remind you,’ said Friedrich, his speech slurring, ‘that we were involved in a special operation.’
‘I could have lost men.’
A glimmer of sympathy softened Friedrich’s eyes. ‘I understand. I understand that you care about your crew. I respect that.’
‘Who was Sutherland? What happened to his boat?’
‘You know very well I am not at liberty to disclose more than you already know.’
‘Grimstad was carrying a notebook. It was full of runes.’
‘He was an archaeologist.’
‘You said he was in possession of extremely sensitive intelligence.’
Friedrich swayed a little. ‘Knowledge—he knew things—valuable things . . .’ The SS man reached for the edge of the bar. He hadn’t intended to say anything—the words had just slipped out. Anger made him stand up straight and speak with greater precision. ‘Kapitänleutnant: your failure to return the prisoners to France was, I believe, allowed to pass. You have been fortunate—so far. Do not abuse our forebearance!’ He turned to leave, and Lorenz grabbed Friedrich’s arm, preventing him from stepping away. The SS man glanced down at Lorenz’s hand and then slowly raised his eyes. Something passed between them, a tacit acceptance that it was not in their interests to escalate hostilities beyond this point. Lorenz released his grip, and Friedrich said, ‘Enjoy the rest of your furlough, Kapitänleutnant.’ He sashayed back to his companions, and as he sat down Ehrlichmann asked a question. Friedrich dismissed the inquiry with a gesture before lifting a magnum bottle of champagne from an ice bucket. The woman wearing the white fur stole leaned against him and rested her head on his shoulder.
When Lorenz arrived at his table only Faustine acknowledged his return. She looked bored. ‘Who was that?’
‘Someone I had to speak to.’ He shook his head as if to say it wasn’t important. ‘Shall we go back to my hotel?’
‘No. Come to my apartment instead.’ She lit a cigarette and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
‘But I promised to meet a friend there later this evening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Gessner—Kurt Gessner. You haven’t been introduced.’
‘Come to my apartment.’ Faustine repeated. ‘You can always go back to your hotel after. I won’t mind. I understand.’
‘Why don’t you want to come to the hotel?’
‘I don’t know.’ She tapped the ash from her cigarette. ‘Sometimes it feels . . .’ Her expression was reproachful.
Lorenz nodded, recognizing her point immediately. He had been tactless, expecting her to come to his room every night like a whore and to endure the disdain of the concierge, the lewd smirk of the bellboy. ‘Yes, you’re right. Forgive me,’ Lorenz conceded, ‘I’ve been inconsiderate. I should come to your apartment more often.’
They left the Scheherazade Club and chose a route that avoided busy thoroughfares. It had been raining, and the cobbles beneath the lamp posts were coated with a yellow glaze. Passing through a little square surrounded by quaint, shuttered houses, they listened to a turbulent Chopin prelude being played on a nearby piano. The effect was absurdly romantic. Further on, they turned into a narrow lane and came to a building with a rickety front door. Faustine pulled it open, switched on a hall light, and led Lorenz up a twisting staircase. The first floor landing was exceedingly narrow and chunks of plaster had fallen from the wall.
‘Why don’t you get this repaired?’ Lorenz asked.
She produced a key and turned it in the lock. ‘The landlord says it’s too expensive.’ They went straight to the bedroom where Faustine lit candles and attended to a cast-iron stove. On the window sill was a pile of creased paperback books, most of which seemed to be works of sensational fiction: Fantômas, Arsène Lupin, Sherlock Holmes. There was also a copy of The Double by Dostoyevsky. Without preamble, Faustine began removing her clothes. Lorenz watched her as she folded her skirt and hung her jacket in the wardrobe. Her fastidiousness was enchanting. She placed one foot on the mattress, released her suspender fastenings and rolled a stocking down her shapely leg with slow grace.
When their lovemaking was over, Faustine opened her hand on his chest. ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he replied, stroking her hair. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘You seem . . . I don’t know—a little different.’
‘Oh?’
‘Preoccupied?’ She took his hand and brushed it against her lips.
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘I am very contented, actually.’
The room was drafty and the agitated candle flames moved shadows across the ceiling. A ticking clock attracted Lorenz’s attention, and when he looked to check the time he discovered that it was later than he’d thought. Without much enthusiasm, he muttered, ‘I’d better be going.’
Faustine got up and wrapped herself in a dressing gown. She tightened the belt and said, ‘Why don’t you come back? After.’
‘No,’ said Lorenz. ‘You’ll be asleep. Don’t you have to get up early for work tomorrow?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then.’
She lit a cigarette, and he noticed that her hands were shaking. ‘I’m cold,’ she said, making her shoulders shiver excessively. ‘Aren’t you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Would you like to go to a concert sometime this week?’
‘If you can get tickets . . .’
Lorenz collected his clothes together and carried them to the bathroom. He washed and dressed and when he returned he found Faustine, still smoking, her hair mussed and a smear of kohl beneath one of her eyes. Her disheveled appearance was curiously alluring.
‘I’m going,’ he said, raising her chin with a crooked finger. He kissed her smoky mouth, and when they parted she said, simply, ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Yes, tomorrow,’ he repeated.
Lorenz stepped out onto the landing and rushed down the stairs, sliding his hand along the banister rail. When he reached the end of the corridor he pushed the flimsy door open and was momentarily startled by an impression of movement. Two shapes were rushing toward him. A glimmer of light on steel signalled that he was in mortal danger. His response to the attack was swift and instinctive. His left arm swung upward and outward, deflecting what might have been a fatal lunge, and he delivered a kick that ended with his foot finding soft accommodation in his assailant’s groin. Turning swiftly he
landed a punch on the second assailant’s jaw. It produced a loud, satisfying crack. He sensed rather than witnessed the figure teetering and falling. Lorenz charged toward the first assailant, who was doubled over in pain, and brought his knee up with considerable force. Cartilage crunched, and he repeated the action several times until he heard the knife clattering on the ground. Then, he grabbed the collar of his assailant’s shirt, raised him up, and rammed him against the wall on the other side of the road. Lorenz’s fingers closed around a scrawny neck.
An image flashed in his mind: Sutherland as vengeful strangler.
Lorenz had been reminded of his homicidal dream only a few days earlier, when the lamps had failed on U-330 and Sutherland had appeared in his flashlight beam. Now their roles were reversed; now it was he, Lorenz, who was doing the strangling. An inner voice reminded him of what he had said to Sutherland, and what Sutherland had repeated in the dream: ‘Destruction is your purpose as much as it is mine.’
For the first time he could see what his assailant looked like. He was young, no older than sixteen, and blood was pouring from his broken nose. The boy’s eyes were wide open, and his expression communicated surprise rather than fear. Lorenz tightened his grip. Glancing over his shoulder at the boy’s unconscious accomplice, he registered the slightness of the prostrate body and supposed that he was roughly the same age.
They had had been waiting for him.
The boy began to make choking noises. Lorenz was tempted to squeeze tighter, but gradually, as his anger subsided he released his grip. Immediately, the boy started coughing, spluttering, and massaging his throat: he edged away, his back remaining in contact with the wall.
‘Go,’ said Lorenz in French, ‘before I change my mind.’ The boy looked at Lorenz in disbelief. ‘Go!’ Lorenz barked.
Startled into action, the boy staggered over to his comrade who was just regaining consciousness. He helped the dazed accessory to his feet, and the two boys limped off as fast as they could, occasionally turning to make sure that they weren’t being pursued.
Lorenz took a few steps and picked up the knife. He tilted the lambent blade and tested the sharpness of its edge. Had his reactions been a fraction slower it would have easily passed through the material of his coat and between his ribs. He reentered the building, climbed the stairs and knocked on Faustine’s door.
‘Who is it?
‘Me.’
‘Siegfried?’
‘Yes.’
He heard the key turn and the door opened. ‘Did you forget something?’
‘Why?’ he said bluntly.
She tilted her head to one side: ‘What?’
‘How could you?’
Faustine pushed a lock of hair off her forehead. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Please don’t treat me like a fool.’ They stared at each other. He saw her hand disappear behind the door. She was getting ready to slam it in his face if she failed to convince him of her innocence. ‘Let go of the handle,’ he said. ‘For God’s sake—do you really think I’d hurt you—even now?’
‘I don’t understand,’ she repeated.
‘Oh, I think you do,’ said Lorenz, offering her the knife. ‘Give this back to your patriotic friends. And tell them that next time, they should attack from behind—not from the front.’
She took the knife and stared at it. Then, her face crumpled, and tears ran down her cheeks. ‘They said they would kill me. They said they would kill me if . . .’ He was tempted to take her in his arms and console her, but he knew that now there could be no going back. ‘You don’t know what it’s like for us.’ She sobbed, her shoulders shaking. ‘You don’t know what it’s like. They send coffins—you open a letter and you find a tiny coffin inside with your name scratched on it.’ Her anguish brought her to the edge of delirium, the threshold of ecstatic pain. She continued crying, and her face became red and swollen. Suddenly, her legs buckled, and she leaned against the jamb for support. When, finally, her sobbing became less violent she closed her eyes and said, ‘What are you going to do?’
Lorenz buttoned his coat. ‘I’m going to have a drink with Gessner.’ As he made his way down the stairs he felt something snagging in the vicinity of his heart—and with every step the sensation became more intense.
LORENZ ARRIVED IN BERLIN LATE in the afternoon and boarded a train bound for the northern suburb where his sister lived. Her house was situated in a pleasant, tree-lined street on the very outskirts of the city, only a short distance from woodland and a picturesque lake. Steffi opened the door and threw her arms around his neck, saying softly, ‘I didn’t tell them.’ She released him from her embrace and shouted, ‘Jan. Pia.’
A boy answered. ‘What is it?’
‘Just come out here—both of you—at once!’
Two children came running down the hallway and when they saw their uncle they both screamed. He scooped them up and they clung to him like monkeys. The customary charade, in which he pretended to have forgotten to bring gifts, was played out until little hands searched his pockets and discovered several chocolate animals and a beribboned packet of gingerbread biscuits. ’All right, children,’ said Steffi, ‘That’s enough. Let your uncle through the door.’ Lorenz stepped into the house and said, ‘It’s good to be here.’ He lugged his suitcase up to the spare bedroom where he changed and allowed himself a few minutes rest before returning downstairs.
While Steffi cooked, the children continued to compete for Lorenz’s attention. He found their antics and playful conversation strangely restorative, and memories of Paris began to fade. After supper, Pia and Jan were prepared for bed, and Lorenz was summoned to read them a story. Before turning the light off, he paused at the door. They were both looking back at him with wide, adoring eyes. Jan’s hair was standing on end. The love that he felt for them was so visceral and deep-rooted, he could barely speak. ‘Goodnight,’ he said, before flicking the switch. He had to compose himself before descending the stairs.
When he entered the kitchen Steffi asked, ‘Will you be staying for Christmas?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘I have to go back.’
‘They’re so inflexible. As if a few extra days would make any difference!’
Lorenz ran his finger along the grain of the tabletop. ‘How is Elias?’
‘We got a letter from him only last week.’
‘Where is he?’
‘On his way to Leningrad.’
Lorenz nodded, expecting his sister to say more. Instead, she remained silent, pressing her lips together until they became pale. He decided that it would probably be wise to talk about something else. ‘I heard about the bombing: I was worried.’
‘Actually,’ Steffi relaxed, ‘it wasn’t that bad. There were a lot of planes but most of them got shot down, and there was very little damage—considering.’
They discussed the war in a roundabout, allusive manner, and when their talk dwindled Lorenz produced a bottle of perfume that he had bought for Steffi on the Rue du Louvre. She unscrewed the top, dabbed a little on her wrist, and inhaled. ‘Thank you—divine. Did your friend help you to choose it?’
‘No,’ Lorenz shook his head.
Steffi’s eyes became slits. ‘Sigi?’
‘It didn’t work out.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?’
‘We just weren’t right for each other.’
Steffi shrugged and replaced the bottle top. ‘I know someone who’d like to meet you. A school teacher: she’s very nice.’
THE NEXT DAY LORENZ WENT for a long, solitary walk around the ice-fringed lake. He skipped stones like a boy and observed scudding clouds reflected on the water. Frozen leaves crunched beneath his boots in the forest. Entranced by the chilly stillness of the winter morning he was overcome by an eerie sense of remove, of having entered some magical, timeless domain. This fantasy was shattered by the sudden roar of a low-flying plane. Lorenz had already called out the first syllable of the word ‘alarm’ before he recognized its redund
ancy. Looking up through a canopy of bare branches, he saw the underside of a Messerschmitt heavy fighter. Even after it had passed and the stillness was restored, his heart was still hammering.
The days were passing too quickly. He didn’t want to return to the boat, he didn’t want to plunge deep into darkness, to endure yet another eternity of explosions, breaches, and shrieking metal. And most of all, he didn’t want to face the unknown. Eschewing the word ‘ghost’ in favor of vague abstractions helped to mitigate fear. He was still clinging to the notion of himself as a rational man. But the dread that he felt at his core was like molten rock, exploiting weaknesses, finding ways to the surface through chinks and fissures. Lorenz picked up a piece of ice and held it until the cold became pain.
He had arranged to have lunch with an old friend, Leo Glockner, and when he arrived at the restaurant behind St. Hedwig’s Cathedral, Glockner was already there, sitting at a table and reading a typed document. Glockner had been a thin, weak, myopic boy, always coughing, always feeling poorly, and attracting the attention of bullies. Lorenz had been obliged to rescue him on countless occasions. Poor Glockner had compensated for his physical deficiencies with hard work: he became fluent in five European languages, including Russian and Greek, studied law, and went on to teach jurisprudence at the university, where his skills were valued, and he was swiftly promoted to a very senior position. Glockner was also very well connected, which was surprising, because he was constitutionally shy and did not enjoy the receptions and dinners that he was frequently invited to attend. Looking at him, Lorenz didn’t think that his friend had changed very much over the years. He was still thin, nondescript, and easily overlooked, the kind of awkward, unprepossessing, largely invisible man who might have made an excellent spy.
Their conversation was warm, jovial, and punctuated by reminiscences. When they had finished eating, and the coffees had been ordered, Lorenz said, ‘Can you do me a favor?’
‘Well,’ Glockner replied, ‘that depends . . .’
‘I’d like you to find something out for me.’
