by Alan Furst
The waiter appeared, offering more coffee, a silver pitcher of thick cream, sugar from a silver bowl. From his briefcase, Martz produced one last sheet of paper: a schedule of press conferences, two every day, one at the Propaganda Ministry, the other at the Foreign Ministry. “Now,” he said, “let me tell you about the cocktail parties.”
Weisz trudged through the daytime hours, hungry for twilight.
Christa managed to come to the hotel almost every afternoon, sometimes at four, when she could, or at least by six. Very long days for Weisz, waiting, daydreaming, thinking of this, or maybe that, some neglected appetizer on the Great Menu, then making plans, detailed plans, for later.
She did the same thing. She didn’t say it, but he could tell. Two taps at the door, then Christa, cool and polite, no melodrama at all, only a brief kiss. She would settle in a chair, as though she just happened to be in the neighborhood and had stopped by, and, perhaps, this time, they would merely converse. Then, later, he would find himself led by her imagination to something new, a variation. The gentility of her bearing never changed, but doing what she liked excited her, charged her voice, quickened her hands, and this made his heart pound. Then it was his turn. Nothing new under the sun, of course, but for them it was a very broad sun. One night, von Schirren went away, to a family property up on the Baltic, and Christa spent the night. With leisure, they sat together in the bathtub, her breasts shining wet in the light, and talked about nothing in particular. Then he reached below the water until she closed her eyes, held her lower lip, delicately, between her teeth, and lay back against the porcelain curve.
Work grew harder every day. Weisz was infinitely dutiful, filing away, as Delahanty had suggested, asking press-conference questions of colonels or civil servants. How they hammered away at it: Germany wished only economic progress-just see what’s happened at our Pomeranian dairies! — and simple justice, and security, in Europe. Please take note, ladies and gentlemen-it’s in our communique-of the case of one Hermann Zimmer, a bookkeeper in the city of Danzig, beaten up by Polish thugs in the street before his house while his wife, looking out the window, cried for help. And then they killed his little dog.
Meanwhile, at small restaurants in Berlin neighborhoods, open the menu and find a slip of red paper with black printing: Juden Unerwunscht. Jews not welcome here. Weisz saw it in shop windows, taped to barbers’ mirrors, tacked to doors. He never got used to it. Great numbers of Jews had joined the Italian Fascist party in the 1920s. Then, in 1938, German pressure on Mussolini had finally prevailed, articles appeared in the papers suggesting that Italians were in reality a Nordic race, and Jews were anathematized. This was new, for Italy, and generally disliked-they weren’t like that. Weisz stopped going to the restaurants.
12 March.
On Tuesday morning, at eleven-twenty, a telephone call at the Reuters office. “Herr Weisz?” Gerda called from the reception area. “It is for you, a Fraulein Schmidt.”
“Hello?”
“Hello, it’s me. I need to see you, my love.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Oh, a domestic stupidity, but we must talk.”
A pause. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“It isn’t your fault, don’t be sorry.”
“Where are you? Is there, a bar? A cafe?”
“I’m up at Eberswalde, something for work.”
“Yes…”
“There’s a park, in the center of the town. Maybe you can take the train, it’s, oh, forty-five minutes.”
“I can take a taxi.”
“No. Forgive me, better to take the train. Easier, really, they run all the time, from the Nordbahnhof station.”
“Allright. I can leave immediately.”
“There’s a carnival here, in the park. I’ll find you.”
“I’ll be there.”
“I must talk to you, to, to deal with this. Together, maybe it’s for the best, I don’t know, we’ll see.”
What was this? It sounded like a lovers’ crisis but it was, he sensed, some form of theatre. “Whatever it is, together…” he said, playing his part.
“Yes, I know. I feel the same.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Hurry, my love, I can’t wait to see you.”
He was in Eberswalde by one-thirty. In the park, several carnival rides had been set up and calliope music played from a staticky loudspeaker. He wandered over to the merry-go-round and stood there, hands in pockets, until, five minutes later, she appeared, having been watching, apparently, from some vantage point. The day was icy, with a sharp wind, and she wore a beret and a trim gray ankle-length coat with a high collar buttoned at the throat. On a long lead she held two whippets, with wide leather collars on their slim necks.
She kissed him on the cheek. “Sorry to do this to you.”
“What is it? Von Schirren?”
“No, nothing like that. The phones aren’t safe, so this had to be a, a rendezvous.”
“Oh.” He was relieved, then not.
“There’s somebody I want you to meet. Just for a moment. You don’t need to know a name.”
“Allright.” His eyes wandered, looking for surveillance.
“Don’t be furtive,” she said. “We’re just star-crossed lovers.”
She took his arm and they walked, the dogs straining at their lead.
“They’re beautiful,” he said. They were: fawn-colored, lean and smooth, with tucked bellies and strong chests, built for speed.
“Hortense and Magda,” she said fondly. “I’m coming from home,” she explained. “I threw them in the car and said I was taking them out for a run.” One of the dogs looked over her shoulder when she heard the word run.
They walked past the merry-go-round to a ride with a brightly painted sign above the ticket booth: THE LANDT STUNTER. LEARN TO DIVE-BOMB! Attached to a heavy steel centerpiece was a pole bearing a miniature airplane, a black Maltese cross on its fuselage, which flew in a circle, sweeping close to the grass, rising twenty feet into the air, then plunging back toward the ground. A young boy, maybe ten years old, was flying the plane. He sat in the open cockpit, his face intense with concentration, his hands white as he clutched the pilot’s controls. When the plane dove, toy guns on the wings rattled and the mouths of the barrels sparkled like Roman candles. A long line of boys, eyes rapt with envy, some in Hitlerjugend uniforms, some holding their mothers’ hands, waited for their turn to fly, watching the plane as it fired its machine guns, then came around for another attack.
A middle-aged man in a brown overcoat and hat moved slowly through the crowd. “He’s here,” Christa said. He had the face, Weisz thought, of an intellectual-deeply lined, with deep-set eyes; a face that had read too much, and brooded about what it read. He nodded to Christa, who said, “This is my friend. From Paris.”
“Good afternoon.”
Weisz returned the greeting.
“You are the journalist?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Christa suggests you might help us.”
“If I can.”
“I have an envelope in my pocket. In a minute, the three of us will walk away from the crowd, and, as we approach the trees, I’m going to hand it to you.”
They watched the ride, then began to walk, Christa leaning back against the pull of the dogs.
“Christa tells me you’re Italian,” he said.
“I am, yes.”
“This information concerns Italy, Germany and Italy. We cannot mail it, because our mail is read by the security forces, but we believe it should be made known to the public. Perhaps by a French newspaper, though we doubt they will publish it, or by a newspaper of the Italian resistance. Do you know such people?”
“Yes, I know them.”
“And will you take it?”
“How do you come to have it?”
“One of our friends copied it, from documents in the finance office of the Interior Ministry. It is a list of German agents, operating
in Italy with Italian consent. There are people, in Berlin, who support our work, and they would want to see it, but this information does not directly concern them, so it should be in the hands of people who understand that it must be revealed, not just filed.”
“In Paris, these newspapers are issued by people of various factions, do you have a preference?”
“No, we don’t care about that, though centrist parties are more likely to be believed.”
“That’s true,” Weisz said. “The extreme left is known to improvise.”
Christa let the dogs take her around in a circle, so that she faced the other way. “It’s good now,” she said.
The man reached in his pocket and handed Weisz an envelope.
Weisz waited until he was back at the office, then made sure he was not observed as he opened the envelope. Inside, he found six pages, single-spaced, a list of names, typed on thin paper, like airmail stationery, on a machine that used a German font. The names were principally, though not entirely, German, numbered from R100 to V718, thus six hundred and nineteen entries, preceded by various letters, R, M, T, and N predominant, with a scattering of several others. Each name was followed by a location, offices or associations, in a specific city-R for Rome, M for Milan, T for Turin, N for Naples, and so on-and a payment in Italian lire. The heading said, “Disbursements-January, 1939.” The copying had been done hastily, he thought, mistakes x-ed over, the correct letter or number handwritten above the entry.
Agents, the man in the park had called them. That covered a lot of ground. Were they spies? Weisz thought not; the names might be aliases, but they weren’t code names-CURATE, LEOPARD-and, studying the locations, he found no armament factories, no naval or army bases, no laboratories or engineering firms. What he did find was a surveillance organization, built into the Italian Ministry of the Interior, its Direzione della Pubblica Sicurezza, Department of Public Security, and, in turn, its branches of national police, called Questura, situated in every Italian town and city. In addition, these agents were attached to the offices of the Auslandsorganisation and Arbeitsfront in various cities, the former for German professionals and businessmen, the latter for salaried employees working in Italy.
What were they doing? Watching Germans abroad, from an official perspective, at the Pubblica Sicurezza in Rome and the Questura, and from a clandestine perspective, at the associations-in other words, managing dossiers or going to dinner parties. And a German security force, stationed in Italy, with Italian consent, would gain real command of the language, and a thorough understanding of the structures of national administration. This had begun-and the giellisti in Paris knew it-in 1936, with the installation of a German racial commission at the Italian Ministry of the Interior, sent down by Nazi officials to “help” Italy organize anti-Jewish operations. Now it had grown, from a dozen to six hundred, a force in place if, someday, Germany found it necessary to occupy its former ally. It occurred to Weisz that this organization, watching for disloyalty among Germans abroad, could also watch anti-Nazi Italians, as well as any other-British, American-foreign nationals resident in Italy.
Reading the list, his thumb running down the margin, he wondered who these people were. G455, A. M. Kruger, at the Auslandsorganisation in Genoa. An avid party member? Ambitious? His job to make friends and report on them? Do I, Weisz thought, know anyone who might do something like that? Or J. H. Horst, R140, at the Pubblica Sicurezza headquarters in Rome. A Gestapo official? Following orders? Why, Weisz asked himself, was it hard for him to believe in the existence of such people? How did they turn into…
“Herr Weisz? It is Herr Doktor Martz, sir. An urgent call for you.”
Weisz jumped, Gerda was standing in the doorway, had apparently called out to him and received no response. Had she seen the list? Certainly she had, and it was all Weisz could do not to clap his hand over it like a kid in school.
Amateur! Angry with himself, he thanked Gerda and picked up the receiver. The afternoon press conference at the Foreign Ministry had been moved to four o’clock. Significant developments, important news, Herr Weisz was urged to attend.
The press conference was addressed by the mighty von Ribbentrop himself. A former champagne salesman, he had, as foreign minister, inflated himself to an astonishing stature, his face beaming with pomposity and amour propre. He was, however, on 12 March, visibly annoyed, his face faintly red, the sheaf of papers in his hand tapped forcefully against the top of the lectern. Units of the Czech army had marched into Bratislava, deposed the fascist priest, Father Tiso, as premier of Slovakia, and dismissed the cabinet. Martial law had been declared. Von Ribbentrop’s demeanor said what his words didn’t: How dare they?
Weisz made furious notes, and rushed to cable as the conference ended. REUTERS PARIS MARCH TWELVE DATE BERLIN WEISZ VON RIBBENTROP THREATENS REPRISAL AGAINST CZECHS FOR DEPOSING FATHER TISO AS PREMIER SLOVAKIA AND DECLARING MARTIAL LAW END. He then hurried to the office and wrote the dispatch, while Gerda obtained a line from the international operator and held it open, chatting with her counterpart in Paris.
By the time he was done dictating, it was after six. He returned to the Adlon, stripped off his sweaty clothes, and had a quick bath. Christa arrived at seven-twenty. “I was here earlier,” she said, “but they told me at the desk that you were away.”
“Sorry, I was. The Czechs have thrown the Nazis out of Slovakia.”
“Yes, I heard it on the radio. What will happen now?”
“Germany sends troops, France and England declare war. I am interned, to spend the next ten years reading Tolstoy and playing bridge.”
“You, play bridge?”
“I’ll learn.”
“I thought you were angry.”
He sighed. “No, I’m not angry.”
Her mouth was set hard, her look determined, close to defiant. “I would hope not.” Clearly, she’d spent some time, wherever she’d gone earlier, preparing to answer his anger with her own, and she wasn’t quite ready to give that up. “Would you prefer that I go away?”
“Christa.”
“Would you?”
“No. I want you to stay. Please.”
She sat on the edge of a chaise longue angled into a corner. “I asked you to help us because you were here. And because I thought you would. Would want to.”
“That’s true. I’ve looked at the papers, they’re important.”
“And I suspect, my sweet, that you, in Paris, are no angel.”
He laughed. “Well, maybe a fallen angel, but Paris isn’t Berlin, not yet it isn’t, and I don’t talk about it because it’s better not to. No? Makes sense?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“It does, believe me.”
She relaxed, made a sour face, and shook her head. I can scarcely believe this world we live in.
He knew what she meant. “For me it’s the same, love.” The sentence in German, except for the last word, carissima.
“What did you think of my friend?”
He paused, then said, “An idealist, certainly.”
“A saint.”
“Close to it. Doing what he believes in.”
“It’s only the very best, now, who will do anything. Here, in this, monstrosity.”
“I only worry, well, it’s that the lives of the saints usually end in martyrdom. And I care for you, Christa. And more.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know.” Then, softly: “Also for me, more.”
“And I think I should mention that hotel rooms, where journalists stay, are sometimes…” He cupped his hand around his ear. “Yes?”
By this, she was slightly ruffled. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she said.
“Nor did I, not immediately.”
For a time, they were silent. Neither one of them looked at a watch, but Christa said, “Whatever else goes on with this room, it is also very warm.” She stood and took off her jacket and skirt, then her shirt, stockings, and garter belt, and folded them over the top of the chai
se longue. Usually, she wore expensive cotton underwear, white or ivory, and soft to the touch, but tonight she was in plum-colored silk, the bra with a lace trim, the panties low at the waist, high at the hip, and tight, a style called, Veronique had once told him, French-cut. They were new, he suspected, and bought for him, maybe bought that afternoon.
“Very appealing,” he said, a certain look in his eyes.
“You like them?” She turned this way and that.
“Very much,” he said.
She walked over to the desk, opened her purse, and took out a cigarette. Her walk was as always, like her, sensible and straightforward, simply a way to get from here to there, but, even so, the plum-colored panties made a difference, and maybe it took her a little longer, at that moment, to go from here to there. As she returned to the chaise longue, Weisz left his chair and, ashtray in hand, settled on the bed. “Come sit with me,” he said.
“I like it over here,” she said. “On this furniture, one can be languid.” She lay back, crossed her ankles, cupped an elbow with one hand, while the other, with the cigarette, was held by her ear-a movie siren’s pose. “But perhaps,” she said, with a voice and smile that matched the pose, “you’ll join me.”
The following day, 13 March, the Czechoslovakian situation deteriorated. Father Tiso had been summoned to Berlin, to meet personally with Hitler, and Slovakia, by noon, was on the way to declaring itself independent. Thus the nation, pasted together at Versailles, then torn apart at Munich, was in its final hours. At the Reuters bureau, Carlo Weisz was fully engaged-the telephones never stopped ringing, and the teleprinter bell chimed as it issued communiques from the Reich ministries. Central Europe was, once again, about to explode.
In the middle of it, Gerda, with a certain knowing tenderness, called out, “Herr Weisz, it is Fraulein Schmidt.” The conversation with Christa was difficult, darkened by approaching separation. Sunday, the seventeenth, would be his last day in Berlin, Eric Wolf was due back in the office on Monday, and Weisz was expected in Paris. This meant that Friday, the fifteenth, would be the last time they could be together.
