by Jon Cleary
Her arms tightened round his neck. “War?”
He nodded. She stared at him a moment, then her face squeezed up in pain, her arms tightened still further without her realizing it. Gently he took her arms away, turned round and took her in his arms. Naked, she sat on his lap and began to weep quietly.
They sat like that for several minutes. Protective of her, he felt a contentment in the role; his mind stopped working and there was just the physical pleasure of holding her and comforting her. When the phone rang in the bedroom he started as if he had been woken from a doze.
“I’d better answer that.” But when he stood up he found his legs had gone to sleep under her weight, his knees buckled and he had to grab her for support. It was enough to make them laugh, to bring them both back to facing matters that could not be avoided. Telephones were invented for such reminders.
Fräulein Luxemburg was on the phone. “Herr Carmody, I have just heard on the grapevine—” The secretaries in all the newspaper and wire services bureaux had their own sources of news. “They are calling off all the restrictions on phoning to England and France. We should be able to get through to London in a couple of hours.”
“What’s happening?”
“That’s all I know. Obviously, something has happened.”
Carmody told her he would be at the office within half an hour, hung up and stood pondering where to go for his best contact. He was aware of Cathleen getting dressed, but for the moment all his attention was on trying to get a starting point for his story, whatever the story might prove to be. Had the invasion of Poland been called off or had it already started?
“What’s the matter?” There was a tense note of worry in Cathleen’s voice.
“I don’t know—yet.” He dialled the phone, firing a prospecting arrow into his list of numbers. “Meg? This is Sean . . . Sean Carmody . . .” He looked across at Cathleen. “She sounds as if she’s drunk.”
On the other end of the line Lady Arrowsmith, no lady at all this evening, was at least half-drunk. “That greasy little dago Mussolini—” She had all the English contempt for Latins; it ran right down through the classes and the ages. Julius Caesar, the first dago, would have met it from the Celts of Kent on his way inland from the Dover Straits. “He has reneged, funked it. He says he’s not ready to support the Fuehrer if England fights for Poland.”
“You should be grateful to Musso. He has more sense than the Fuehrer. What else do you know?”
She was a gin-barrel of information: “They say the English and the Poles are on the point of signing a treaty. Nothing is going right for the Fuehrer—” She sounded maudlin, as if she were about to weep over one of her pet dogs.
He wanted to be angry with her, but he couldn’t be; she was too pathetic. “Where did you get all this?”
“From Nicky. Nicky Klatt—he knows. Darling—” She sounded as if she had taken a deep breath, was trying to sober up. “You wouldn’t like to come over and keep me company?”
“I can’t, Meg. I’m working—I’m probably not going to get to bed tonight. Try Nicky.”
“He’s home with his wife. See you Sunday.” She hung up abruptly.
He had forgotten all about Sunday; he could not see himself playing tennis out at Schwanenwerder while bombs were falling on Warsaw or wherever. But . . . Nicky Klatt—he knows. Maybe, if war had not begun by Sunday . . .
Cathleen was dressed, was putting on her make-up. “I’ll come with you.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Wherever you’re going. I can’t go home and spend the night alone. Not tonight. If you’re going to your office, I’ll come there and just sit in a corner. Or talk to Fräulein Luxemburg or whatever her name is. But I’m not going home.” Though she looked composed again, she was still struggling with her nerves and emotions. She was ashamed at how she had lost control in the bathroom; Sean’s remark had been insulting, even if he hadn’t meant it, but it had only been the trigger to let fly all the feelings that had been building up for the past week. She wanted someone to hold on to and, she was coming to appreciate more and more, he was as steady and dependable as anyone she had ever known. More so than anyone she had known. “I want to be with you.”
Perhaps the best part of being loved is being needed; love is a mutual selfishness and men, usually, give less than women. But Carmody, who had never been in love before, was not analytical about it: he just felt warm and touched. He took both her hands and kissed them, a European gesture.
“I like that,” she said, smiling lovingly at him. “You’re becoming Continental.”
He grinned, embarrassed by compliments. “I didn’t want to spoil your make-up.”
I love him, she thought. Please, God, let us survive.
Admiral Canaris was feeding his dachshunds, talking to them as he talked to no one else, not even his family. His wife Erika had phoned him to ask if she and Brigitte should leave Berlin; he had done his poor best to sound like a good husband and father, but he didn’t really care; in the end he had said he would leave the decision to Erika’s “good judgement.” All their married life she had prided herself on her good judgement, except in marrying him. Sometimes he felt sorry for her. She had married him, something she regretted; she had had two daughters, one of whom, Eva, was in a mental home and the other, Brigitte, at thirteen was already thought to be slightly eccentric. Whose genes were to blame, his or Erika’s? He asked the question now of the dachshunds, but though they were faithful dogs they were not comforting philosophers. They were too German for that.
There was a knock at the door and Colonel von Gaffrin came in. Though he did not like Gaffrin, he envied him: the aristocratic officer seemed to have his life perfectly organized. A beautiful wife whom he loved and who loved him, three perfectly healthy children, a beautiful mistress whom he didn’t love and who didn’t love him . . . There was a file on Gaffrin locked away in Canaris’ private drawers along with other files.
“The word has just come through from our embassy in Warsaw—the English and the Poles have just ratified a treaty. The order has gone out for all our troop movements to be stopped.”
“You look pleased, Gaffrin. Almost jubilant.” Canaris put the dachshunds in their baskets, went back to his desk.
“I think you look pleased yourself,” said Gaffrin, though there had been no change of expression at all on the Abwehr chief’s face.
“Really? I suppose I am. I wonder how the Fuehrer feels at having to call off the invasion.”
“My information from the Chancellery is that he is quite put out.”
“Well, perhaps peace has been saved. Lift the ban on outside communications—perhaps the English at home would like to know there isn’t going to be war.”
Gaffrin looked at him with that sardonic smile that always made Canaris feel inferior to his insubordinate. “There will be a lot of Germans who will feel relieved, too.”
The file on Hans von Gaffrin showed that over the past 18 months he had been in touch with several influential people in England. He was a frequent visitor to functions at the British embassy here in Berlin. Canaris knew he was bitterly anti-Nazi, that he belonged to a cabal of senior officers who would gladly see Hitler fall; but only Canaris knew it and, anti-Nazi himself, he had no intention of exposing Gaffrin. He was not, however, going to expose himself by identifying himself too much with Gaffrin. He opened one of his pill-boxes, took a pill: he could feel something coming on, though he was not sure whether it was the ague or apprehension.
“What is to happen to all the troops in East Prussia and on the border?” he said.
“Who knows?” Gaffrin was enough of a professional soldier to know that one can’t leave standing armies sitting around.
“It will be interesting tomorrow to see what Reichsminister Goebbels says in his newspapers about the backdown.”
There had been another backdown, by the plotters. Events had moved too fast for them; by the time they themselves were ready to move, their
troops had already gone. The local commanders sympathetic to the plot were to have taken over the strategic barracks and the entire chain of Gestapo stations this morning; yesterday at noon three of the commanders were on their way to East Prussia. The plot suddenly was no more than cobwebs, the plotters harmless spiders. Gaffrin had spoken to General von Albern last night: the old man had sounded heartbroken.
“Ah yes, Goebbels. The little man will be so busy—”
Gaffrin kept his smile to himself. At six feet four he was surrounded by little men: from that height he often knew the colour of a man’s dandruff more than the colour of his eyes. From a foot above Canaris he nodded. “He is always busy, one way or another. Did you know he has been seeing the American actress Cathleen O’Dea?”
A good espionage man can’t admit ignorance, not to another officer. “I’d heard of it. It’s harmless, isn’t it?”
“At a time like this? Still, better an American trollop than an English or French one.”
Possibly; but not an American Jewish one. Sooner or later he would show the file on Fräulein O’Dea to Goebbels, but the moment had to be right: he did not want a hollow victory over the arrogant little Rhinelander. “What has been happening to the English one, Lady Arrowsmith?”
“The Fuehrer considers her a nuisance now. But he can’t send her back to England—that would be bad propaganda.”
“Women are always bad propaganda,” said Canaris, who knew.
“Should we keep a closer watch on her? Women spurned can be dangerous,” said Gaffrin, who knew.
Canaris shook his head; dandruff fell on his shoulders. “I’m sure the Gestapo have their eye on her. We have more than enough to do. Would you like to go to East Prussia?”
“No,” said Gaffrin.
“I thought not.” He knew enough not to push his subordinate, but he wished he could conjure up more authority. “Well, find out what you can from the English and French, those who are still here. Go to tea with someone.” He smiled to show he had made a joke: no one ever knew, otherwise.
Gaffrin wanted to pat the little man on the head: he was so pathetic at times. Often he had been tempted to take the admiral into his confidence, recruit him into their plot; but one could never be sure what the Abwehr chief was thinking, he blew hot and cold in his attitude towards the Nazi hierarchy. He was a monarchist looking for a monarch to serve, but all the kings were gone.
“I was going riding tomorrow. Damn, why do crises always happen at the weekend?”
He left: no salute, no Heil Hitler, just turning on his heel and going. He would salute the generals, Canaris thought; and looked at his dogs, who dutifully barked. Then the phone rang.
It was the Chancellery. “The Fuehrer has called an urgent meeting, Herr Admiral. He would like you here within an hour.”
Well, thought Canaris, what madness is he contemplating now?
9
I
THAT FRIDAY night was the busiest night Carmody had spent since arriving in Germany. All the major government departments kept staff working all night; twice he went over to the Wilhelmstrasse in efforts to get information when he could not get through on the busy phones. London rang him four times and New York was twice on the line; he began to feel that both offices were disappointed that he could not send them copy on the declaration of war. Cathleen stayed in his office all night, once falling asleep in her chair while he was over on the Wilhelmstrasse. Fräulein Luxemburg fussed over her, giving her all the attention that her maidenly reticence would never allow her to give Carmody. If there was any jealousy or envy of Cathleen’s possession of Carmody, it did not show.
At six in the morning the story was cold. The invasion of Poland was off; all troop movements in the East had been stopped. It seemed to Carmody, walking back from the Wilhelmstrasse for the second time, that he could hear a collective sigh of relief coming out of the open windows of the ministries. They were not so much afraid of being killed in war as having their world killed: bureaucracies survive wars better than armies, but war does upset the system, especially of promotions.
He took Cathleen and Olga Luxemburg to breakfast at the Adlon Bar. Fräulein Luxemburg demurred. “Oh, I can’t, Herr Carmody! I should be intruding—”
“Nonsense, honey,” said Cathleen. Fräulein Luxemburg had never been called honey before; she looked demurely flattered. “World Press owes you a slap-up breakfast. We’ll have champagne with our bacon and eggs. Don’t groan,” she said as she saw Carmody roll his eyes. “I’ll pay if you’re too stingy.”
“Loot the petty cash, Fräulein Luxemburg,” said Carmody resignedly. “We’ll do what she says. I heard a rumour last night that they’re going to announce rationing in the next day or so.”
They walked over to the Adlon. Before they went into the hotel Carmody stood on the pavement and looked up at the sky. It was going to be another warm day; the sun had come up like a red ball out of the east; he wondered if it would have been redder had it risen through the dust and smoke of bombs and shells. He looked across at the IG Farben building, saw the anti-aircraft gun on its roof, barrel pointing to the sky like an obscene gesture.
“What sort of day is it going to be?” Cathleen, despite her tiredness, smiled at him.
“Warm, with the possibility of storms in the east. I’d wear your tin hat and your galoshes.”
“Don’t joke like that,” she said and took his hand.
He smiled wanly at Olga Luxemburg. “She’s desperate about being an optimist.”
“All women are. It’s the only way to survive in a man’s world.” Fräulein Luxemburg herself looked surprised at her statement: it was something she had read and now it had popped out, like a woman’s unmentionable from a handbag.
Cathleen laughed, took her arm and whisked her into the hotel. Carmody, shaking his head at the unpredictability of women, followed them. Joe Begley was in the bar and with him was Fred Doe, cornet-case parked beside his chair.
“The help is not supposed to be in here,” said Doe, “but at this hour and after all the hullabaloo last night, the manager and under-managers have gone home to bed. Do you mind eating with the hotel help, ladies?”
“We’re all help at this table, aren’t we?” said Cathleen. “We’re all working for someone. Right now I wish I was working for someone else,” she added ruefully.
“Fräulein Luxemburg—” Begley was in his trenchcoat, ready for any storm. “I’ve spoken to you on the phone. I know your reputation.”
She looked ready to faint. “My reputation?”
“The best girl in any news office in town. If you don’t know it, no one knows it, that’s what they say. I don’t know why you go on working for Mr. Carmody here.”
“Because he gives her champagne for breakfast,” said Cathleen and ordered Krug ‘34 to be served.
Carmody looked at her. “Where did you learn what champagne to order?”
“You learn a lot in the movies.”
Everyone, even Fräulein Luxemburg, seemed determined to put the events of the night behind them; the conversation, for breakfast talk, was animated and at times merry. Cathleen told them of some of the classic Hollywood lines (“Here comes Anytime Annie—the only time she said no, she didn’t hear the question”); Fred Doe told them of a film, Victor-Viktoria, in which Renate Müller played a woman masquerading as a man and the whole homosexual population of Berlin, male and female, went to see it and shrieked at all the wrong notes; and Carmody and Joe Begley told their best newspaper stories, though they had trouble remembering which was best, since there were so many of them. Olga Luxemburg just sat and laughed and got tipsy on the Krug ‘34 and Carmody, sneaking glances at her, wondered what she would tell her mother, Goering’s admirer, when she went home. Don’t ever feel sorry for yourself, he told himself, not while there are people as lonely and trapped as she is.
At last Fred Doe rose, picked up his cornet-case. “Could I see you a moment, pal? I want to give you a bit more on that story you’re doi
ng on me.”
Carmody followed him out into the lobby. He had done no more on the story about Berlin’s musicians and he knew that Doe wanted him for something else. The lobby was busy with guests checking out, though there was no impression that they were fleeing the city; he heard some American voices saying why shouldn’t they stop off in Cologne before going on to Paris. Go home, Yanks, he told them silently, and he saw Doe looking at them resentfully.
“Rich bastards,” the jazzman said. “No war’s ever gonna catch them.”
Carmody looked at the three couples, all of them expensively clothed, the Vuitton luggage stacked beside them, the air of confidence that comes with old wealth exuding from them like a perfume: they would survive everything, even the next American Revolution. One of the women, about his own age, looked at him; or rather, she looked through him. Bitch, he thought, and wondered why he should be so annoyed by a stranger.
“Why did you want to see me?”
“I saw our friends last night—”
“The Langs?”
“No names, no pack drill—ain’t that what the Limeys say?” Doe had had too much to drink; he looked as if he were having to hold himself together. “They told me they didn’t give you much good news.”
“It could have been better. Ravensbrueck,” he said cryptically.
Doe nodded. “I’m sorry, pal. The Gestapo raided the apartments where I live last night—they took away three of my neighbours. The bastards,” he added bitterly.
“Did they question you?”
“Two hours of it. That’s where I’d been before I came back here for breakfast. I’ve had enough, pal. I’m going home.”
“Home? The States?” Had he at last laid the ghost of Bix Beiderbecke?
“All the way, pal. Right home to Charleston, South Carolina. Nobody there will remember me—” He shrugged. “Pity I hadn’t blown a few phrases they’d heard back there.”
“When are you leaving?”
