Mission to Paris

by Alan Furst

  ‘Did I? I just stood there and let him talk. Do you suppose he really thought I was going to be in his wretched film?’

  ‘He had a try at it, he was likely told to try it. And then he went further, proposing that you go to live in Germany.’

  Stahl shook his head. ‘How could anybody …’

  ‘Think you might? The Nazis believe they’re going to rule the world, and “believe” isn’t the right word – they know it. So maybe, with a little persuasion, with a little pressure, they might get you to join them. After all, you went to Berlin, you did what they wanted. And it would have been a real triumph if it had worked. Imagine the German newspapers.’

  ‘Well, he didn’t stop there. As I told you, he invited me to go scouting for locations in Poland.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be spying on Poland, why not come along.’

  Stahl looked incredulous.

  ‘Scouting locations?’ Wilkinson said. ‘That would perhaps include railways? Bridges? Ports? With a camera no doubt. What would you call it?’

  ‘That never occurred to me. I’m afraid I’m not so smart about this … kind of thing.’

  ‘Movie producers are catnip to spy services – they turn up everywhere, they spend a lot of money, they can reach important people, it’s one of those useful professions.’ Wilkinson put his notepad back in his briefcase. ‘Anyhow, you’ve helped us. Roosevelt is about to go to Congress with a proposal for millions of dollars to be spent on rearmament. Five hundred million dollars, to be precise, which ain’t chicken feed. And the only thing that will persuade Congress to spend this kind of money is some strong indication that there will be war in Europe. Hitler has been screaming about Poland lately, and suddenly it’s in the French press. I don’t know if you saw it, probably you didn’t, but that fascist bastard Marcel Déat just published an opinion piece called ‘Mourir pour Danzig?’ To die for Danzig? Who would want to die in some quarrel over a faraway city? So French public opinion is once again being, as they say, “harmonized”.

  ‘Now newspaper stories won’t convince the honourable senator from Ohio, but what may convince him is being invited to lunch at the White House and told, not for publication, of course, that the Germans are making propaganda films about Poland. They’re going down the same road they took in Czechoslovakia, but the Poles only just got their country back, twenty years ago, and they’ll fight to keep it. And when they fight, Britain and France will have to declare war – they wriggled out of their treaties with the Czechs at Munich but they can’t do that again.’

  ‘I assume there’s more than Harvest of Destiny.’

  ‘There is. All sorts of things that add up, Orlova’s notes included, and intelligence from here and there. The German administration in Danzig just threw all the Jews out of the city, for instance, and Danzig isn’t in Germany, it’s in Poland, supposedly administered by the League of Nations, so it will be a long lunch at the White House.’

  ‘Mr Wilkinson, you aren’t suggesting I go to Poland, are you?’

  ‘No. That’s potentially a trap.’

  ‘A trap?’

  ‘Maybe, could be, you never know. Talk about headlines! “Poles arrest American actor spying for Germany.” I doubt you’d be going back to Hollywood after that. And you really might wind up working for UFA.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘Yes, kindly old Dr Lawton joins up with the Nazis.’ The idea was horrifying but the way Wilkinson had put it amused them both. ‘Better stay here in Paris,’ Wilkinson said. ‘And, even here, watch out for yourself. These people may seem absurd, like Wolf Lustig and Moppi and his pals, but absurdity can shield the truth, which is that these people are dangerous.’

  Adolf Hitler was a man who needed an audience. When he spoke in public, the shrieking crowd drove him to his most passionate moments. In private, he required a circle of admirers, sitting rapt and silent as he delivered his monologues. Of course the people around him had to be the right people: senior military officers, old comrades from the early Nazi days, a few blonde women, maybe an actress or two, a sprinkling of diplomats. One such was a cousin of Propaganda Minister Goebbels, a young man called Manfred Mueller. Freddi, Hitler called him, and he was something of a court favourite. He wore owlish round glasses in tortoiseshell frames, stood – and sat – straight as a stick, laughed at Hitler’s snide remarks, and carefully deferred to Hitler’s powerful friends but not in a way that got on their nerves. He was just a very nice young man, easy to have around.

  Sometimes the whole gang went off to one of Hitler’s country retreats, the Berghof, say, in the mountain town of Berchtesgaden in the Austrian Alps. There wasn’t room for everybody at the Berghof – Hitler liked his numerous bodyguards close by – so his guests would stay at the Berchtesgadener Hof, the local hotel. Since these were social events, couples were welcome, and Freddi Mueller was often accompanied by his wife, Gertrud, called Trudi.

  Trudi Mueller was also easy to have around, always following the expected protocol: women were there to listen to what the men said and to appreciate their brilliance, laugh at their wit, look serious when important subjects were being discussed. In her thirties, she was pretty in a careful way, with smooth brown hair and fine skin. She dressed conservatively and, like her husband, had excellent posture. A perfect couple, the Muellers: attentive, unassuming, and perfectly correct in everything they did, in everything they thought.

  Well, almost everything. Because Trudi Mueller had fallen in love with Olga Orlova. Did Trudi admit this, even to herself? Possibly she didn’t, and buried certain desires so deeply that she could ignore their existence. But, whatever her dreams or reveries, and some of her dreams were unsettling, Trudi openly worshipped the Russian actress; thought her terribly glamorous, loved her beautiful clothes, loved the way she spoke – that Slavic undertone in her German, loved the way she held herself, loved the way her well-exercised body looked in a bathing suit. She saw Orlova, who was in her forties, as the successful older woman; sophisticated, confident, comfortable with her life. Trudi wouldn’t have dared to think she could ever be like her, it was more than enough to be near her.

  Now Trudi may not have known what she felt but Orlova surely did. She’d been in this position before, she knew the signs, and didn’t mind – being desired was a daily commonplace for a film star and it was inevitable that sometimes women did the desiring. So Orlova knew. Trudi often touched her, her eyes had a certain light in them when the two of them talked, and she was responsive to Orlova’s moods and fell in with them. Was something funny? They laughed together. Was something sad? They mourned together. Would it ever go beyond that? Here Orlova was uncertain. Trudi was from a certain social class, strict, conventional, and rigidly proper, where such feelings between women were not discussed, and, supposedly, never acted upon. Even in the 1920s, when open and fervent sexuality flourished in German cities, the Trudi Muellers of the world sniffed and pretended not to notice. As for Orlova, a life in the theatre and then in film had room for pretty much anything, as long as it was discreet, as long as, the saying went, it didn’t frighten the cat.

  Meanwhile, Orlova the professional spy sensed opportunity in Trudi’s affections. She couldn’t have said precisely what that was but felt its presence – something useful, a secret to be stolen, so she kept at it, and she and Trudi were often in each other’s company. On days when the men up at the Berghof had private matters to discuss and the women didn’t appear until dinnertime, the two of them would go walking in the mountains, take tea together in the hotel parlour – crackling fire on the hearth, bear and chamois trophy heads on the walls – and now and then visit in one of their rooms if the weather was bad.

  And there came an afternoon in November when the weather was very bad indeed. It didn’t start that way, was chilly and calm all morning. Freddi was in a meeting up at the Berghof. Orlova, having the sort of day when boredom becomes intolerable, knocked at the door of Trudi’s room and suggested they take one of the trails up the mountain. She
was already dressed for it: a ski parka, wool trousers – plus fours, buttoned over heavy socks below the knee – and a knit stocking cap, snug on her head, that hung down to her shoulder and ended in a fluffy pompom. The red cap made her look like a child, an elfin child, and Trudi said it was adorable.

  Trudi was eager to go for a walk but she had to change into outdoor clothes. Orlova made as if to leave, so Trudi could dress in private, but Trudi insisted she stay, it wouldn’t take too long. Orlova sat in a chair, Trudi took off her dress and hung it up, tossed her slip on the bed, and walked around in her underwear, gathering up a cold-weather outfit and chattering away. Something of a display, really, a show, and Orlova wondered idly if she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she did – turning to Orlova and saying, ‘You don’t mind, do you, if I go about like this?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘After all, we’re both girls.’

  Trudi put on a heavy sweater and slacks, then lace-up boots. All the while she talked; they had the painters in their apartment in Berlin and the inconvenience, and the smell of fresh paint, was frankly testing her patience. Should they stay at a hotel? That seemed to her extravagant, didn’t Olga think so? No? No doubt Olga was used to luxurious hotels but Trudi was so much more comfortable at home. On and on she went, talking to Orlova through the open bathroom door as she fixed her make-up. Watching her apply fresh lipstick, Orlova thought, Must look good in case we meet a bear.

  At that moment, Orlova’s eye happened to fall on a briefcase, leaning on the leg of a chair set before a small desk. Freddi’s briefcase. Forgotten? Left on purpose? She wondered what might be in there, then Trudi came out of the bathroom and said, reaching for her coat, ‘Ready at last!’

  Outside, the clouds above the mountain had lowered while Trudi changed her clothes, and a white mist had blanked out the summit, which meant alpine weather on the way, but they were dressed for it. They walked through the town, past the little shops and the statue of Goethe, then started up one of the trails. About twenty minutes later a few flakes of snow came drifting down – big, soft flakes that spun through the still air. Trudi wiped her face with her mitten, Orlova’s cap turned from red to white. A wind stirred, then grew stronger and sighed through the forest, while the branches of the pine trees bowed with the weight of the new snow.

  The trail had a gentle slope as it climbed the face of the mountain, the streets and houses below looked remote and serene, like a village in a painting, and Trudi grew confidential. Did Olga, she wondered, ever feel lonely? In truth, Orlova said, she didn’t – she seemed always to have people around her. Trudi said that even in a crowd she sometimes felt very much alone. For a time, the grade steepened, which made conversation difficult as they worked their way upwards, but then it levelled out and Trudi said that she and Freddi had always wanted children – but did Orlova think every couple had to have them? Orlova didn’t think so; people ought to be free to do as they liked. Trudi agreed – wistfully, it seemed to Orlova. Maybe in the future they’d have them, Trudi said, lately Freddi worked so hard, cared so very much about his job, that he was always tired. Every night, he was tired. ‘He falls asleep when his head hits the pillow. It leaves me feeling, oh, “lonely” is the word, I guess.’

  Just about here it occurred to Orlova that a comment about Trudi’s sleepwear might be in order, but then she was distracted by the weather. A Muscovite by birth, she knew a thing or two about snow, which had started to come down thick and fast. They really couldn’t see the town any longer and when she turned and looked back down the trail, their footprints had disappeared. In fact, the word ‘blizzard’ wouldn’t have been all that wrong.

  ‘Trudi, dear,’ she said. ‘I think we shouldn’t go much further.’

  ‘That’s what I think,’ Trudi said, apparently eager to return to the hotel, and they started back down the mountain, the going sufficiently difficult that now and then Trudi had to hold on to Orlova’s arm. They were never really in trouble, but by the time they reached the hotel they were both red in the face and breathing hard. When Orlova dropped Trudi off at her room and said she was going upstairs to change, Trudi said, ‘You will come back, won’t you? And keep me company?’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ Orlova said. ‘Why don’t you have them send up a bottle of brandy? It’ll warm us up.’

  In her room, Orlova hung up her wet clothes and put on slacks and a sweater, then stood for a time before her open suitcase, contemplating a small Leica camera. It wasn’t a miniature camera, a spy’s camera – discovery of such a thing would have been a catastrophe – but, equipped with a certain lens, it worked almost as well. It had done so in the past. Take it down to Trudi’s room? Where Freddi’s briefcase rested against a chair? How? In a handbag. Would there be an opportunity to use it? Orlova thought this through, and found no suitable strategy, but then, with a nod to the gods of chance, she dropped it in her bag.

  Downstairs, Trudi was wearing a quilted pink bathrobe that hung down to her ankles. The bottle of brandy and two glasses had arrived, along with a message from the hotel telephone operator: the roads down the mountain from the Berghof were impassable, Herr Mueller would not be able to return until the morning. Trudi didn’t seem all that disappointed, quite the reverse. ‘So it’s just you and me, tonight,’ she said.

  They sat together and talked for a while, then Trudi said, ‘I’ve caught a chill, feel my hands.’

  ‘Like ice,’ Orlova said, rubbing them for a moment.

  ‘I think I’d better take a bath,’ Trudi said.

  ‘You should, it will warm you up.’

  Trudi slipped off her robe and walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind her. When the water was turned on, Orlova calculated that the sound would cover any noise she might make and headed for the briefcase. She unsnapped the latch and spread the sides open, to be greeted by a bulky sheaf of papers. A memorandum, something about Plan ALBRECHT. Another, this one to do with secretarial holidays. A draft for a report, script written in pen, the sentences hard to read. Then, from the bathroom, ‘Olga, dear?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Could you bring me my drink?’

  ‘Be right there.’

  Orlova managed to shuffle through a few more pages, then found Trudi’s glass, poured in some more brandy, and took it into the bathroom. Through the steam, she could see Trudi’s white body in the green water. ‘Here it is.’

  ‘Thank you. You can sit on the edge of the tub, if you like.’

  ‘The steam is getting me wet, I’ll wait for you in the room.’ As she turned to go, the significance of one of the papers came to her: a list of names with numbers, reichsmarks, next to them. Which could have been anything, but now Orlova realized that she’d seen a crossed L, the Ł, which was pronounced W.

  In Polish.

  Orlova snatched the Leica from her purse, found the list, and laid it flat on the desk. She riffled through to the end, some thirty pages. She had only eighteen exposures left on the film in her camera, but she’d get what she could.

  Now the splash of water in the bathroom stopped. Orlova glanced at the open door, her heart pounding, but there was only drifting steam. She returned to the document and snapped the first photograph. ‘Olga?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you think Freddi is a good husband?’

  Calling out, ‘Of course he is,’ Orlova used the sound of her voice to conceal a turn to the next page.

  ‘Oh, in a way he is, he’s …’ Click. Next page. ‘… kind and considerate.’

  ‘There’s much to be said for kindness.’ Click. Next page.

  ‘But shouldn’t there be more?’ Click. Next page.

  ‘Do you mean physical things?’ Click. Next page. ‘Intimate things?’

  ‘That is what …’ Click. Next page. ‘… I mean, Olga.’

  ‘It is important in love affairs.’ Click. ‘But a marriage isn’t …’ Next page. Click. ‘… a love affair.’ Next page.

  ‘Do yo
u think …’ Click. Next page. ‘… I should have a love affair?’ Click. Next page.

  The dialogue continued, with an occasional slosh from the bathroom as Trudi changed positions. Was there somebody Trudi liked? Well, yes, there was, could Orlova guess who that might be? Orlova said she wouldn’t even try to guess. And what if Freddi found out? What then? There was no way he ever would. Orlova doubted that. Trudi persisted – the person she had in mind would never tell, of that she was sure. Then, as Orlova rushed to turn a page, it rattled, and Trudi called out, ‘Are you reading the newspaper?’

  Desperately, Orlova looked around the room. Was there a newspaper? Yes! There it was, on a chair. ‘I’m just thumbing through it,’ she answered. Then, from the bathroom, the sound of Trudi getting out of the tub, and, as she dried herself, Orlova took the final exposure, jammed the document back in the briefcase, closed it, and put the camera in her bag. ‘I don’t think anybody would ever know,’ Trudi said.

  Orlova hurried over to the chair, grabbed the newspaper and was standing there holding it when Trudi ran naked from the bathroom, jumped into the bed, pulled the covers up to her chin, and said, ‘That felt so good, my bath.’

  ‘Well, when you’re chilled …’

  ‘Olga, dear?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why don’t you get in here with me and keep me warm?’

  Orlova laughed and threw the newspaper back on the chair. ‘I’m going to take my brandy upstairs and rest for a while.’

  ‘Are you sure, Olga?’ Trudi’s voice had lowered, I’m serious. The question was overt and direct.

  Orlova walked over to the bed and smoothed Trudi’s hair back. ‘Yes, Trudi, I am sure,’ she said, her tone affectionate and understanding. Then she said, ‘I’ll be back later, and we’ll have dinner together,’ and left the room.