by Jon Cleary
“My dear boy, that is a subject left well alone—”
“Oliver, dear boy—” Carmody grinned when he said it. “You’ve given me a lot of good advice since I came to Berlin. But I’m a big boy now and I want to write my own stuff. Now how many camps do you know of?”
Burberry sighed, wiped a biscuit crumb from his lips. On the wide pavement beside the terrace people hurried by, some glancing enviously at those who had the time to sit in the sun and take tea. Further along the street the gold ring of the clock-face on Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church showed exactly four o’clock; he heard the chimes even as he looked at the church tower. Four o’clock: time for tea in any civilized country. Except that here civilization was crumbling like the biscuit in his hand.
“I really don’t know how many camps there are. When I first came here in 1936 there were already 50 or more. I believe they’ve closed a lot of the smaller ones and larger ones have been built. Why do you want to write about them now when we’re trying to cool down Hitler over Danzig?”
“Appease him again, you mean.”
Burberry shook his head. “I don’t think London will stand for any more appeasement. There are too many voices against it.” He looked about him, at the passers-by on the pavement, at the loungers at the tables sipping their coffee or tea and tucking into their strudel and cake and sundaes. The inner man must be appeased, he thought. Then he looked up at the sky, at the burnished blue air through which soft clouds floated like scraps of dreams only vaguely remembered. “How could war break out on a day like this?”
“War is a summer sport, isn’t it?”
“Ah, dear boy, you have been with us decadents too long. That sounds like European cynicism.” He called for the bill, paid it and rose. He picked up his umbrella, looked up at the sun and decided he could stand a little more of it. There was a slight tan to his pink face and bald head and he looked marvellously healthy, ready for war or any disaster. He swung the umbrella, narrowly missing the head of a woman sitting at the next table. “I must be off. Be patient—there may be bigger things to write than what you have in mind.”
He went striding off along the Kurfürstendamm; Carmody, looking after him, felt he should have been wearing a flag. He envied the English their self-confidence: the sun might be setting on their Empire, but they were looking the other way.
He sat for a while luxuriating in the warm sun, relishing the sweat he could feel on his chest and in his armpits. The sun had been one of the few pleasures of Spain; he ached still from some of the bitter memories of the war there. He had been here in Berlin when Hitler had reviewed 14,000 members of the Condor Legion who had fought in Spain; it had taken all his self control not to hurl abuse at them as they marched by. When he saw Sperrle, the architect of the bombing of Guernica, he had turned away, sickened by the memory of what the man had done. But the war in Spain was over now, all the battles had been in vain, and now the sun was shining on what, he was certain, would prove to be the biggest battlefield ever. He wondered if some of the sweat under his shirt was the sweat of fear.
He left the terrace, carrying his jacket over his arm, and walked leisurely back to his apartment. Kreisler, the hurdy-gurdy man, was playing outside his front door.
“Still playing dirges, Herr Kreisler?”
The man smiled his gap-toothed smile and the monkey, also gap-toothed, reflected it. “I’m thinking of playing some hymns. But the priests in the church—” he nodded at St. Ludwig’s “—might object. They don’t like competition, especially from an atheist.”
Carmody had a sudden idea. “Is your monkey housetrained?”
“Like a good bureaucrat.”
Carmody wondered if he talked like that only to a foreigner. “Come upstairs. I’ll give you a drink. What’s your preference?”
“Scotch whisky, if you have it,” said the organ-grinder, elbows out of his jacket, boots looking as if they had walked thousands of miles: a connoisseur of Scotch whisky if ever I’ve seen one, thought Carmody.
“And the monkey’s?”
“A little schnapps. It brings tears to his eyes, but then he looks even more human.”
Carmody took them upstairs, glad of his idea, a story on the unknown musicians of Berlin; tonight he would go looking for Fred Doe, the trumpet man from the Adlon. There would be half a dozen more to choose from: a bass drum man from one of the bands which played in the park, a violinist from one of the cafés: he hoped they would all prove as cynical and observant as Herr Kreisler promised to be.
Kreisler parked his hurdy-gurdy, tied the monkey to a hallstand, took off his battered hat and looked admiringly round the apartment. “You live well, Herr Carmody. As you deserve to.”
“Thank you,” said Carmody, but forebore to ask why Kreisler thought he deserved so much.
The apartment had been inherited from the man he had succeeded at World Press. Before that it had belonged to a Jewish doctor, who had fled to Australia one jump ahead of the Gestapo; Carmody liked to think of him and the doctor changing places, he comfortable here in this city apartment, the Jewish doctor sweating somewhere in a shearing shed, unable to practise because the AMA would not recognize his qualifications. The exchange would be grossly unfair and Carmody sometimes had pangs of guilt.
The furniture and furnishings were heavy, but the best Gothic: Carmody sometimes felt he was trapped in the Middle Ages. The cabinet from which he served the drinks had been made by Leistler; he felt he should be serving a witches’ brew or some potion handed down by Woden or one of the other gods. The monkey gulped down his schnapps and instantly fell over. Kreisler took no notice of him, but sipped his own drink appreciatively.
“Where did you get your taste for Scotch?”
“In Edinburgh. I went there for a conference of International Socialists. It was my downfall. I discovered a passion for the good things of life, especially liquor.”
“You gave up socialism? Or were you a communist?”
“Oh, a communist through and through. Or so I thought. I discovered that if you want the good things in life, you need money to buy them. I turned to forgery. That was another thing I discovered—that I had a very fine talent for forging.”
Carmody felt his story was rushing at him. “Forging money or signatures?”
“Oh, both.” He looked at his glass, savoured another mouthful of Scotch. This is a beautiful whisky. I haven’t tasted anything like this in years. Not since they sent me to a concentration camp back in 1934. I had a farewell drink the night before the Gestapo picked me up.”
Carmody began to feel suspicious that Kreisler was feeding him fiction, buying his drink with what he thought Carmody wanted to hear. “What camp did they send you to?”
“Sachsenhausen.”
“For forgery or for being a communist?”
“Oh, I was never arrested for forgery, though they suspected I’d been at the game. No, I was a communist and that was bad enough.”
“When did they release you? I thought all the communists were still locked up.”
“They are. But I recanted.” He finished his drink, looked at his empty glass. Carmody took the hint and gave him a refill. Kreisler went on as if there had been no pause: “I discovered the merits of National Socialism as opposed to Marxist socialism.”
“What are the merits?”
“They get you released from concentration camps—if you’re lucky.” He smiled, but he was watching Carmody shrewdly. “Why are you entertaining me, Herr Carmody?”
Carmody had another idea, wide of his original one: “I thought you might be spying on me for the Gestapo.”
Kreisler looked shocked; the monkey stood up, then fell over again. “The Gestapo watch me, Herr Carmody. I give you my word—I am not a stool pigeon.”
“I apologize. No, originally all I wanted was to do a story on you.” He explained his idea. “Maybe I’m looking for a theme in the music that’s being played in Berlin today.”
Kreisler shook his head. “Leave me
out of it, please. I’m sorry you wasted your whisky on me.” He stood up, reached down and picked up the monkey, chucked it under the chin. “Your schnapps must be strong. FDR usually can take his liquor.”
“FDR?”
“There are no American tourists now, at least not many. It makes the locals smile when I call him FDR. At least some of them. The Gestapo, for instance. Their sense of humour is very simple.”
“I think you’re still something of a forger, Herr Kreisler. You’ve made a forgery of yourself.”
“Of course.” He was stroking the monkey’s head; it was dozing off, looking like a hundred human drunks Carmody had seen. “The world is full of us. Especially Germany. But don’t quote me, as you journalists say.”
Carmody nodded, though reluctantly. Then he said, “How much do you know about the concentration camps?”
Kreisler had relaxed, but now his face set again. “I wouldn’t want to talk about Sachsenhausen.”
“It was as bad as that?”
“The point is I still have friends in there.”
“Are there any women there?”
“There weren’t when I was there, but there may be some now. Most of the women were sent to Ravensbrueck, in Mecklenburg. Why do you ask?” The monkey seemed to be peering at Carmody from half-closed eyes. “Are you looking for some sort of music theme in the camps? I assure you, Herr Carmody, it is very sad music.”
“No. I’m looking for the aunt of a friend of mine.”
“A Jewess?”
Carmody hardly hesitated. “I don’t believe so. No, we’re not sure if she wasn’t involved in some political thing.”
“I couldn’t help you.” The monkey had gone to sleep now. Kreisler put on his hat, slung his hurdy-gurdy over his shoulder by its strap. “I’ll try to think of some gay tunes for tomorrow, Herr Carmody. Thank you for your hospitality.”
He touched the brim of his hat, opened the door and was gone before Carmody could show him out. The latter stood for a moment, wondering if he should run out on to the landing and shout down to the hurdy-gurdy man that he would write his story anyway. But he was not that sort of newspaperman. He might write a story that would send a man to jail (though so far he never had), but he could not write one that would return a man to a concentration camp.
IV
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was weary; not tired, which was a different state. He always saw to it that he got plenty of sleep, even to an hour’s nap on the couch here in his office at Abwehr headquarters. It was an office that one would not have expected of a career naval officer: shabby, the desk cluttered with papers, two dachshunds dozing in their baskets, their blankets lying in crumpled heaps beside them on the faded carpet. A model of the light cruiser Dresden, undusted, stood on a side table. On the mantelpiece were three Japanese bronze monkeys, dumb symbols of the three cardinal virtues of any spy organization: See all, hear all, say nothing. There was the obligatory photograph of Hitler and also, a strange icon for the chief of the German secret service, a photograph of General Franco. Both photos were fly-speckled.
Canaris was weary of his battle to fight off a dozen ailments, all of which were imaginary, and the battle to fight off all those who tried to encroach on his domain. There were pills to help in the suppression of his ills; the drawers of his desk rattled with bottles. There were no pills to stave off invaders like Himmler and Heydrich, unless one resorted to cyanide. But that was not a naval man’s way, though he knew cyanide was on the Abwehr’s requisition list for emergency use by its operatives.
There was a knock on the door and Colonel von Gaffrin came in. Hans von Gaffrin was the fashion-plate of the service, an elegant cavalryman who was everything his chief was not: handsome, witty, athletic. He was also tall, which made the Admiral, who was only five-three, dislike him intensely. If he could have had his way he would have staffed the Abwehr with men shorter than himself. Which, eventually, would have made them highly identifiable spies.
Canaris retreated behind his desk and sat down, the only high ground for a short man. “Yes?”
Gaffrin had one thing in common with Canaris: he was a monarchist and, like the Admiral, occasionally dreamed of the old, better days. “Our beloved leader is at it again. More threats over the Danzig question. Something is brewing. I’ve just learned that the SS has put in a requisition for 150 Polish uniforms. Why? Is Goering putting on another one of his fancy dress balls?”
Canaris thought his senior aide sometimes went too far; but he was too weary today to argue. “I have to go down to Obersalzberg next week, the Fuehrer wants to see all his senior officers. Perhaps I’ll learn something then.”
“Not about those Polish uniforms, I’ll bet. Do you want me to put someone on to it, find out why they’re wanted?”
“If you wish.” He picked up a file on his desk. “You live a very social life, Hans. Have you had any experience of the American actress Cathleen O’Dea?”
“Experience?” Gaffrin raised an eyebrow, an expression he had been practising all his life; everything about him was practised and practice, he was certain, had made him perfect. “Not in that sense.”
Canaris looked irritable; he was prudish and he did not like even veiled hints about sex. “Please, Hans, for once try and not be witty. Have you met her at dinners or parties?”
Gaffrin showed no reaction to his chief’s reprimand; he practised urbanity, too. “Several times. Do we have something on her? I’m told that Goebbels has his eye on her, poor girl.”
“I heard the same. We’ll keep an eye on her, too.”
A few matters of business, then Gaffrin left. As soon as he was gone from the room Canaris stood up, felt taller. He carried the file on Cathleen O’Dea over to a window, stood there looking out on Tirpitzufer. It was another beautiful day, but he hardly saw it. He ran a slow hand over his white hair and his long rectangular face seemed to lengthen. His thick brows came down over his blue eyes as they always did when he slid into deep thought. What to do with the information in the file on Fräulein O’Dea, especially now that Goebbels was courting her?
The information had come in from New York only last week. The agent there had done his work well, though it had taken him several months. Cathleen O’Dea was half-Jewish, was here in Germany not just to appear in a film but to look for her mother Mady Hoolahan, born Miriam Razman. Should the head of the Abwehr do the right thing and pass the information on to Himmler, head of the SS and the Gestapo? The two organizations were supposed to co-operate and frequently did, though the relations between the two had grown strained in the past year as Himmler had tried to expand his own empire. Or should he pass the information direct to Goebbels? But no: why should he do a favour for such a champion adulterer?
He had no time for any of the senior Nazis. Once he had believed that National Socialism might be the only way to revive what he had always believed in, “the eternal Germany.” But disillusion had set in, like a slowly growing disease, and there had been no pills or panaceas for that. The Nazi hierarchy, given to excesses, blinded by their own hunger for power, warped by their prejudices, were not the men who would lead Germany back to its entitled pinnacle.
He walked slowly back to his desk, put the file in a drawer and locked it. He sat down, looked at his dachshunds and whistled softly to them. They got up and waddled across to him. He bent down, his long-nosed face close to theirs, and patted their heads. An astigmatic visitor, coming suddenly into the room, might have thought there was a distinct family resemblance. The Admiral would not have been offended by the thought. He always thought of these animals as more his family than the wife and two daughters who bore his name. It amused him to think that until Germans had become the British royal family, the English had ill-treated their dogs.
4
I
“I USED to think actors were interested in what I was saying to them,” said the man from the Manchester Guardian, “till I realized they were only looking at the reflection of themselves in my glasses.”<
br />
“I once saw a motion picture,” said the Christian Science Monitor and left it at that.
“German films,” said Le Matin, “are like knackwurst in celluloid skins. Very heavy.”
The foreign press had been invited out to Neubabelsberg to see some of the shooting on Lola und Ludwig and to talk to the stars. Welcoming a break from the dreary, unproductive government press conferences of the past week, the foreign correspondents had come out to the studio in force. But, with one or two exceptions, they were not film fans and they were not going to lower their dignity by appearing impressed by whom and what they saw. Foreign correspondents, like ambassadors, hate to write despatches beneath themselves. Snobbery has to be aspired to.
Carmody, no snob and a film fan ever since he had seen Intolerance in an outback bush town when he was six years old, was enjoying himself. Tables had been set up in one of the sound stages for luncheon and Cathleen, using her prerogative as a star, had insisted he should sit beside her. On his right was Melissa and beyond her was Oliver Burberry; on Cathleen’s left was Lindwall, of the New York Times, who had suddenly found that, if no film fan, he was at least an admirer of actresses, especially one from New York. The other correspondents were spread amongst the other players, the director and his senior assistants and those of the studio brass who didn’t think it was beneath their dignity to consort with foreign newspapermen. The atmosphere took everyone’s attention away from the food which, like Lola und Ludwig, was badly cooked and lay heavy on the chest. Only the wine and beer were good.
“I had supper with our friend the other night,” said Cathleen, looking sideways at Carmody with that way women have of throwing stones into still pools.
He showed no ripples. “Did you learn anything?”
“Only that I say the wrong thing too often. No—” She shook her head when she saw his sudden look of concern. “I didn’t get around to asking him about her. I left early, you’ll be pleased to know.”
“Good,” he said; the ripples were showing. “What’s Colonel von Gaffrin doing here?”
