by Alan Furst
Mercier had worked in worse places—by candlelight in muddy trenches—but the Singvogel was well up the list. It was the SS men, Mercier suspected, who led the songfest in the bar below, starting with the Horst Wessel song, the classic Nazi anthem, and moving on to the SS favorite, the tender “If Your Mother Is Still Alive. . . .” Only a prelude. As the night wore on, the bordello opera was to lack none of its most memorable moments: the breaking glass, the roaring laughter, the female screams—of mock horror and, once, the real thing, God only knew why—as well as the beloved duet for grunts and bedsprings, and the artful cries of the diva’s finale.
Still, they had to work. It helped that Halbach knew where Elter lived, in a tenement in the Kreuzberg district. It was also time, at last, to tell Halbach what he needed from the I.N. 6 office. “But only two contacts, between you and Elter,” he said. “Of course we must be especially careful the second time, when documents will be delivered. If you are betrayed, that’s when it will happen.” Downstairs, the shouts and crashing furniture of a good fight.
“That will bring the police,” Halbach said.
“Not here. They’ll take care of it.”
They listened for the high-low siren, but it never came. “Remember this,” Mercier said. “It is Hitler and his clique who want to take the country into war, but there could be nothing worse for Germany. Remind Elter of that. His work on our behalf will provide information that can impede their plans, which would be the highest possible service to the German people. If war comes here, they are the ones who will suffer.”
“Yes, the moral argument,” Halbach said sourly, not at all convinced.
“You know what to do if it doesn’t work.”
And, to that end, the following afternoon, Mercier and Halbach left the hotel and drove to the central area of the city, where the former bought a camera, and the latter made a telephone call.
24 April, 6:20 P.M. In darkness, but for the lights twinkling on the station platform, the train clattered down the track. A freight train, eight cars long: two flatcars bearing tanks, an oil tanker, a mail car, its lit windows revealing canvas bags and a brakeman smoking a cigar, and finally a caboose. The train sped past the station—the stationmaster held a green flag—slowed for a curve, then accelerated down a long straightaway, through a field with grazing cows. Smoke rose from the stack of the locomotive, which blew its whistle, two mournful cries in the night. Ah, the railway crossing. The bar came down; a produce truck waited on the road. Then a sharp grade, climbing to a bridge that crossed a stream, a descent, and a long curve, which led to another station. The train slowed and rolled to a perfect stop beneath a water tower.
There followed a moment of appreciative applause, and someone turned on the lights. “Well done,” said a man with a beard, squatting down to examine the locomotive at eye level. Others agreed. “Quite perfect.” “A good run.”
Johannes Elter said nothing. Only stared, wide-eyed, at the apparition in the doorway, which searched the room, then waved to him. The weekly meeting of the Kreuzberg Model Railway Club, in the basement of a local church, was one of the few pleasures in his humdrum existence, but now, even here, his past had returned to haunt him. “A former acquaintance,” he explained to the man beside him, a stockbroker with an estate in the Charlottenburg district.
Halbach circled the trestle tables, then offered his hand. “Good evening, Johannes. Your wife said I would find you here.”
Elter returned the greeting, a smile frozen on his face.
“Can we speak for a moment?” There was no conspiracy in Halbach’s voice, but, in a pleasant way, he meant privately.
“We can go upstairs,” Elter said.
“Don’t be too long,” the stockbroker said. “We are electing officers tonight.”
“I’ll be right back,” Elter said. Coming directly from work, he wore the uniform of a Wehrmacht corporal.
Halbach, heart pounding, followed Elter up the stairs to the vestibule. The church beyond was empty, the altar bare. It had been Lutheran once but now, in line with the dictates of the Nazi regime, was home to a rather secular denomination known as “German Christian.” Elter waited until Halbach climbed the last step, then, his voice low and strained, said, “What are you doing? Coming here like this.”
“Forgive me,” Halbach said. “I had to come.”
“Has something changed? Are you now free to go anywhere?”
“No, they are after me still.”
“You could ruin me, Julius. Don’t you know that?” Elter’s face was ashen, his hands trembling.
“It was Otto who sent me to see you,” Halbach said.
Elter was stunned. “He’s alive?”
“He is,” Halbach said. “For the time being.”
“Where . . . ?”
“I mustn’t say, but what’s happened is that he’s fallen into the hands of foreign agents.”
Silence. Finally Elter said, “Then that’s it.”
“It need not be. But they will turn him over to the Gestapo and, if they do, he’ll be forced to tell what he knows. And that will be the end, for me, for you, for all of us who are still alive.” Halbach let that sink in, then said, “Unless . . .”
Elter’s voice broke as he said, “Unless what?”
“It depends on you. On you alone.”
“What could I do?”
“They want information, from the office where you work.”
“That’s espionage! Who are they?”
“They are Swiss, or so they say. And they offer you two things if you comply: a Swiss passport, in a new name, and five hundred thousand Swiss francs. So you must choose, Johannes, between that and the Gestapo cellars.”
Elter put a hand on his heart and said, “I don’t feel well.” Down below, the lights went out and another train began its run, the locomotive tooting its whistle.
Halbach reached out and rested his hand on Elter’s arm. “This was inevitable,” he said, not unkindly. “If not today, tomorrow.”
“My God, Julius, why do you do this to me? I was always a faithful friend.”
“Because of that, I do it.”
“But I don’t have information. I know nothing.”
“Trash. That’s what they want. Papers thrown away in the waste-baskets.”
“It’s burned! Every bit of it, by the janitors.”
“When?”
“At nine in the evening, when they come in to clean the offices.”
“You must do it before nine.”
“But there’s too much; how would I carry it out of the building?”
“They want only the material from the section that works on plans for war with France: three days of it. Leave the rest for the janitors.”
“I thought you said they were Swiss.”
Halbach grew impatient. “Oh who knows what these people are up to, they have their own reasons. But the money is real, I know that personally, and so is the passport. Here, have a look.” Halbach reached into his jacket and handed Elter the Braun passport.
Elter looked at it, then gave it back. “I don’t want to leave Germany, I have a family.”
“That’s up to you. Your money will be in an account in Zurich. You’ll be given the number and the passport on Friday. You’ll have to put in a photograph, but they will tell you how to manage that.”
Elter looked suddenly weary. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Do you want to die, Johannes?”
Elter’s voice was barely audible. “No.”
Halbach waited. Finally, Elter shook his head, slowly, sickened by what life had done to him. “Friday, you said?”
“At the Hotel Excelsior. In the Birdcage Bar. Come in civilian clothing, put the papers in a briefcase. Seven-thirty in the evening. Can you remember?”
“Seven-thirty. The Birdcage Bar.”
Halbach looked at his watch. “Walk me out, Johannes.”
They left the vestibule and stood for a moment in the doorway of the church.
Across the street, Mercier was sitting behind the wheel of the Renault, clearly visible with the driver’s window rolled down.
“Is that one of them?” Elter said.
Halbach nodded. “Old friend,” he said, “will you still shake hands with me?”
Elter sighed as he took Halbach’s hand. “I never imagined . . .” he said.
“I know. None of us did. It’s the wisdom of the gods—to keep the future dark.”
In the car, Mercier watched the two men in the doorway. The one in uniform turned, and stared into his eyes with a look of pure hatred. Mercier was holding the camera below the window; now he raised it, looked through the viewfinder, and pressed the button.
•
Mercier wasted no time. His valise and Halbach’s suitcase were already in the trunk of the Renault. Now he wound his way out of Kreuzberg and onto the road that ran north to Neustrelitz. Beside him, Halbach leaned his head back on the seat and closed his eyes. “Not very far, is it?”
“Three hours, no more than that.”
“Will he be at the bar?”
“I trust he will. Do you agree?”
“I’m not sure. He’ll think about it, try to find a way out. And then . . . well, you’ll see, won’t you.”
A fine spring night. The road was dark and deserted and Mercier drove fast. It was 11:30 when they reached the city of Rostock and, a few minutes later, the port of Warnemünde. At the dock, the ferry—a ferry from a cartoon; its tall stack would pump out puffs of smoke in time to a calliope—was already taking on passengers, headed across the Baltic to the Danish port of Gedser. Just up the street, at the edge of the dock, a customs shed held the border kontrol, where two passengers waited at the door, then entered the shed.
“Shall I walk you through the kontrol?” Mercier said.
“No, I’ll manage.”
“There’s one last train for Copenhagen tonight, on the other side. Of course, once you’re in Denmark, you may do whatever you like.”
“I suppose I can. I’d almost forgotten, that sort of life.”
“Will you fly to Zurich?”
“Perhaps tomorrow. The funds will be there?”
“We are true to our word,” Mercier said. “It’s all in the account.”
Halbach looked out the window; the two passengers left the customs shed. “And will this,” he said, “all this, make any difference, in the long run?”
“It may. Who knows?”
Halbach climbed out of the car, retrieved his suitcase from the trunk, returned to the passenger side, and looked in at Mercier, who leaned over and rolled the window down. “Likely I won’t see you again,” Halbach said.
“No, likely not.”
Halbach nodded, then walked toward the dock. At the door to the customs shed, an older couple, poorly dressed, entered just as he arrived. Then, a moment later, Halbach followed them. Mercier waited, the Renault engine idling. The ferry creaked as it rose and descended on the harbor swell. Mercier checked the time: 11:39. A sailor walked down the gangway and stood by one of the bollards that held the mooring lines. Now it was 11:42. Somebody in the customs shed reached out and closed the door. Had something gone wrong? They couldn’t get this close, just to . . . Five minutes, six, then ten. Should he go to the shed? To do exactly what? Above the door, the breeze toyed with the red and black flag. 11:51. The sailor at the bollard began to unhitch the mooring rope, and the ferry tooted its cartoon horn, once, and again. A few passengers had gathered at the railing, looking back into Germany. Mercier’s hands gripped the wheel so hard they ached, and he let go. Now the couple left the shed, the man supporting the woman with an arm around her waist. When the sailor called out to them the man said something to the woman, and they tried to hurry. Mercier closed his eyes and sagged against the seat. Not now. Please, not now. The sailor tossed the mooring line onto the deck and strolled over to the other bollard. Two crewmen appeared at the end of the gangway, ready to haul it aboard.
Then Halbach came out of the shed, tall and awkward, running, holding his hat on his head as he ran. At the end of the gangway, he turned and looked at Mercier, then disappeared into the cabin.
Mercier took a hotel room in Rostock; then, early the following morning, drove back to Berlin and, at the northern edge of the city, parked the car. Carefully, he searched the interior and the trunk, found no evidence left behind, and locked the doors. There it would remain. He took a taxi to the Adlon and settled in to let the days pass. He felt much safer now that Halbach was no longer in the country, and he had to work to keep elation at arm’s length. Because Elter might not show up at the Birdcage Bar, because the Gestapo might show up instead—if he’d been caught in the act, or if he’d been so foolish as to go to his superiors. Or, really, was that so foolish? Play the contrite victim, tell all, hope for the best.
No, Mercier told himself. That look of murderous hatred had revealed something of Elter’s true self—the brute inside the clerk. Mercier had not been displeased by that look, far from it. It meant secret strength, just what Elter would need to do what he had to. Save Otto Strasser? Save Halbach? A joke. Elter would save Elter. And then, struggling along on a corporal’s pay, war on the horizon, welcome to Switzerland.
The Adlon was busy, only a luxurious double had been available. A warm room, and very comforting, lush fabrics in subdued colors, soft carpet, soft light. Mercier took off his shoes to stretch out on the fancy coverlet, stared at the ceiling, missed Anna Szarbek. The telephone on the desk tempted him sorely, but that was out of the question. Still, there was something about these lovely rooms, not just flattering—only success brought you to such places—but seductive. Now he wanted her. She liked nice things, nice places. She would march about in her bare skin, showing off her curves. He rose from the bed, went to the telephone, and ordered dinner brought to the room. Better to stay out of sight. Friday.
28 April. Hotel Excelsior. A vast beehive of a hotel, buzzing with guests—the swarm concentrated at the reception counter and spread out across the lobby. Mercier waited his turn at the desk, signed the register, and handed over the Lombard passport—this was not the Singvogel. A bellboy took his valise and they rode the elevator to the eighth floor, as the operator, wearing white gloves, called out the floor for each stop. In the room, he tipped the bellboy and, after he’d left, paused before the mirror: anonymous as he could be, in dark blue overcoat, gray scarf, and steel-gray hat. He left the valise in the room and descended to the lobby.
Across from the reception, the Birdcage Bar. Mercier pushed the padded door open, and yes, there it was, as advertised: a gilded cage suspended from the ceiling, its floor covered with oriental pillows for the comfort of the bird presently in captivity, an indolent maiden, very close to nude but for her feathered costume and tight gold cap. At rest when Mercier entered, she now rose, circled the cage, went to her knees, held the bars, and reached out for a passing guest, who circled the outstretched hand with a nervous laugh and rejoined his wife at their table.
Standing at the bar, Mercier surveyed the tables in the room. Elter? Not yet, it was only 7:20. Surveillance? No way to tell, dozens of people, drinking and talking; it could be any of them. Would this contact have been safer under a railway bridge? Maybe, but too late now. Mercier left the bar, and found a chair in the lobby, a potted palm on one side, a marble column on the other. Elter came through the door at 7:28, wearing hat and overcoat and carrying a large briefcase by its leather handle. He peered about him, found the neon sign above the door to the bar, and headed across the lobby. Mercier watched the entry doors—two dowdy women with suitcases, a young couple, a beefy gent holding a newspaper, who walked toward the elevator. Mercier stood up and hurried over to the bar. Elter was just inside, looking around, not sure what to do next—every table was taken. “Herr Elter,” Mercier said, “would you please come with me?”
Mercier led him to the elevator and said, “Eight, please.” Above the door, a steel semicircle, where an arrow moved over the floor nu
mbers as the car rose. Four. Five. . . . Eight. Mercier got out, Elter followed, and they walked together down a long empty hall. It was very still inside 803, a common hotel room with a print of an old sailing ship above the bed, and almost dark, but for the ambient light of the city outside the window. Mercier left it that way, he could see well enough. “Please put the briefcase on the bed,” he said.
Elter stood at the window. Mercier opened the briefcase. Papers, of various sizes, many of them crumpled and straightened out, sketches, memoranda, a study of some sort, several pages long. From the pocket of his jacket he brought out a manila envelope, its flap unsealed. “You’d best have a look at this,” he said to Elter.
“Very well,” Elter said, his voice quiet and firm.
Mercier opened the envelope and handed Elter a Swiss passport. “There is an address in here, a photography studio in Prague. They will complete the passport for you. Can you go to Prague?”
“Yes. I don’t see why not.”
“In this envelope is also an account number and the address of a bank in Zurich. The account holds five hundred thousand Swiss francs, you need only submit the number. Is that clear?”
“It is.”
“Did you tell anyone about this?”
“I most certainly did not.”
“Your wife?”
“No.”
“Best keep it that way, until you leave Germany.”
“I have no intention of leaving.”
“Well, that’s up to you.” Mercier snapped the briefcase closed and picked up his valise. “It would be best,” Mercier said, “if you remain in this room for fifteen minutes.”
Elter was studying the bank information, hand-printed on a square of notepaper. “There is one thing I wanted to ask you,” he said.
“Yes?” Mercier had taken a step toward the door, now he turned back.
In the darkened room, the two men in hats and overcoats stood, for a moment, in silence, then Elter said, “Will you seek further information? About the I.N. Six section?”
