The City of Fading Light

by Jon Cleary

  He was breathing heavily, though still watching the screen, like a man in a blue movie fleahouse. Garbo turned a reproachful eye on him; even Basil Rathbone looked down his long English nose at him. God, Cathleen thought, if Garbo does this to him, what would Jean Harlow do? But she knew the woman up on the screen had little to do with his arousal. He tried to draw her hand towards his own lap, but she resisted.

  He suddenly relented and she let her arm relax; at once he plunged both their hands into the bottom of her lap, between her thighs. She did laugh then, a little hysterically; she was too tired to be really amused. She stood up, still trying to extricate her hand from his; she was right in the middle of the projector’s beam and Fredric March, another lecher, was all over her. She wrenched her hand free, feeling his nails scratch her so that she cried out, and stumbled out of the room. Garbo looked soulfully after her, but offered no comfort.

  Outside in the hall she paused, trying to compose herself. She looked at her hand, saw the bloody scratches on it. She turned back to the door to the drawing room, waiting for him to appear; she wanted to scream at him, throw all caution to the winds of her anger and revulsion of him. But he did not appear. She heard the screen voices, then the slamming of a door and music; but heard and saw nothing of him. He was staying with Garbo, whom he could adore at a safe remove, who would never reject him.

  She heard a movement behind her and spun round. The butler, short like his employer but more dignified, stood there with her wrap. “Shall I call the car, Fräulein?”

  “No. No, I’ll get a taxi.”

  The butler nodded, led her towards the door and opened it for her. Then he whispered, “Do take the car, Fräulein O’Dea. The Reichsminister won’t know. It will be back before the film ends.”

  “He will stay in there till it ends?”

  “He never walks out on Fräulein Garbo. Goodnight, Fräulein.”

  “Goodbye,” said Cathleen. If you can’t say goodbye to a man, say it to his butler: there is almost as much satisfaction.

  V

  Thursday morning Admiral Canaris stood looking down on Tirpitzufer, but he saw nothing on the street. Keitel, Chief of the High Command, had sent a hand-delivered note to him an hour earlier saying that espionage abroad had to be stepped up with the coming invasion of Poland. Fall Weiss, Case White, was to take place at first light tomorrow; it was expected that England and France would respond within hours. Canaris had no time for General Keitel, but he was preferable to Himmler or Heydrich; that was one advantage of the Abwehr being directly responsible to the High Command. The situation would have been insufferable if he, as Abwehr chief, had had to answer to the SS or the Gestapo.

  A convoy, coming from God knows where, had halted in the street below. It was a peculiar procession, a mix of army vehicles, delivery vans and open transport trucks. Only some of the vehicles were carrying troops; the rest were stacked with supplies. If we are already having to draft in such civilian transport, Canaris wondered, how well are we prepared for a long war?

  He turned away from the window as Hans von Gaffrin knocked and came in. “Have you seen that?” He nodded down into the street.

  Gaffrin shrugged. “That comes of having a corporal as commander-in-chief.”

  Canaris could never bring himself to accept Gaffrin’s almost reckless criticisms of Hitler. Though he shared the aristocrat’s view, he was much more circumspect. “You should be more careful, Hans. The walls may have ears.”

  “The telephones almost certainly do, but I’m always discreet on them.” Gaffrin smiled, but Canaris sensed there was no good humour in the other man this morning. Something had occurred to upset him. “As I’m sure you are.”

  “What have I to be discreet about?”

  “You were sympathetic last year when certain generals approached you.”

  Gaffrin was sounding him out for something. He walked across to the dachshunds, began to feed them some biscuits. They licked his hand, trusting him. “That was a year ago, Hans. Time has run out. We’ll be at war tomorrow.”

  “How does the General Staff feel about it?”

  “They’ve been committed, have had their orders. They are professional soldiers—how else can they feel about it? They will obey orders.”

  “If something happened—”

  “What?” He wrenched his hand away as one of the dogs bit him accidentally.

  But Gaffrin had had second thoughts; he backed away. He had never been certain of his chief and Canaris knew that; but then no one, not even his own family, had ever been certain of him. It made him few friends, gave him no love; but, in his chosen profession, it gave him a certain security. Spy-masters must make themselves the tightest secret of all.

  “I have to go out,” Canaris said. “I have an appointment.”

  Gaffrin knew enough not to ask where and with whom: the chief’s movements could be as secretive as those of some of their operatives. “I have a new roster almost finished. I’ll show it to you this afternoon.”

  “Do that. We have to recruit more agents. We’ll talk about that, too.”

  He waited till Gaffrin had gone, then he took two pills, certain that he was now developing hay fever on top of his other ailments, put on his cap and went out to his car. Gallmüller, the doorman, saluted him, but the Admiral, mind on the appointment ahead, went past him without seeing him. Gallmüller, a veteran Berliner, shrugged and dropped his arm. It didn’t matter to him if the Admiral didn’t want to heil Hitler.

  The Mercedes, one of those without armour-plating or bullet-proof windows, professional service chiefs being expendable, took him to the Leopold Palace. All during the drive he thought about his decision to tell Reichsminister Goebbels about the Irish-Jewish actress from Hollywood. He had almost consigned the file on the O’Dea woman to the back of his secret drawer; much more important matters were now demanding his attention and he could see no immediate advantage in blackmailing the Reichsminister, though even in his own mind he did not call it that. There were levels of decency below which one did not drop, even mentally.

  This morning, however, a report, unsigned, had been delivered to his house. It was from an agent, unknown even to Hans von Gaffrin and other senior officers in the Abwehr, whom he had placed on the staff of Heinrich Himmler, Reichsfuehrer of the SS. A “mole,” a word he had found in the English writer Bacon’s history of Henry VII: though he would never use such a word in any official paper. The mole had reported that Reichsfuehrer Himmler had, somehow, come into possession of information that Reichsminister Goebbels was having an affair with the American actress Cathleen O’Dea, who was a Jewess.

  He did not have the sardonic sense of humour that, for instance, Hans von Gaffrin had; he did not appreciate the irony of his mole having discovered information leaked by a mole in his own organization. The information in his secret drawer was supposed to have been for the eyes of only one other person besides himself in Berlin; that person, he knew, could be trusted. So was the agent in New York, whom he had thought he could trust, also working for Himmler? All at once he felt he should retire, retreat to some remote spot on the Baltic coast where the air would be clean and trust was something as simple as credit at the village grocer’s. But intrigue was in his blood, he would be drained without it. He had to be close to power, even if only to spy on it.

  He was shown into the Reichsminister’s office immediately The two small men met at eye-level, ignoring the huge room that encircled them; the office itself suggested power, but the two tiny men suggested boys who had crept into it in the pursuit of mischief. Neither man had to draw himself up to his full height: there was no advantage in it.

  “It must be something important, Herr Admiral, to ask for such an urgent meeting. I hope it is not bad news?” Goebbels was puzzled. He and Canaris had little to do with each other, since propaganda was all lies and espionage was a search for truth.

  “I think it may be bad news, Herr Reichsminister, and I hope you will forgive me for my presumption in
bringing it to your notice.”

  “Of course, Herr Admiral.” Goebbels smiled as if his throat had been cut.

  Canaris gave him the information he had received from New York on Fräulein Cathleen O’Dea.

  “When did you receive this information?”

  “Only yesterday,” said Canaris, who was not a natural liar but a practised one. “That, though, is only half the bad news. I received information this morning that Reichsfuehrer Himmler has the same information.”

  “Sit down, Herr Admiral.” Goebbels, his limp suddenly seeming to have worsened, led the way to two side chairs. “Does your Berlin informant know I have entertained Fräulein O’Dea to supper? Does Himmler know?”

  “Yes,” said Canaris to both questions.

  Goebbels tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, ran his lips up and down his teeth. Then: “Something puzzles me, Herr Admiral. Why have you come here to tell me this? You and I have never been friends.”

  “No,” said Canaris, who knew the value of truth, if used judicially, “but Himmler and I are enemies. I cannot stand the man.”

  “He, of course, cannot stand anyone but himself.”

  “True,” said Canaris, knowing now that he was on safe ground. He smoothed down a white eyebrow that had become nervous. “I know that he and you have had your differences—”

  “You may be more explicit than that. I, too, cannot stand the man.”

  Canaris nodded. “He will use the information against you. Perhaps not now, there is too much happening at the moment, but when the time suits him. So—”

  “So?”

  “Herr Reichsminister, forgive my frankness. If anything should happen to the Fuehrer, God forbid—” he added as self-insurance: he was sitting opposite the man who had virtually created the myth of Der Fuehrer, who had invented the boringly familiar Heil Hitler! “If anything should happen to him, there will be a power struggle. You and I know who, on the basis of intellect, should succeed him—” He was surprised at the facileness of his flattery.

  So was Goebbels. “I’d always heard that you never had a good word for anyone, Herr Admiral. We must meet more often.”

  Canaris managed a smile: he could think of only one thing he wanted less and that was regular meetings with Himmler. “Himmler would use everything he has to destroy rivals. You are more popular with the public than he is. But if he released the information that you had some sort of liaison with this half-Jewess . . .”

  Goebbels had had past experience of Himmler’s interference. It was the SS chief who had broken up the romance with Lida Baarova, informing the Fuehrer of what was going on and prompting the latter to step in and summarily tell Goebbels he had to turn his back on Lida and go back to Magda. It had then been left to the SS to see that Lida was banished back to her native Czechoslovakia, that all her films were destroyed and that she was never to work in films or the theatre again. And Lida had not been Jewish . . . This time, if Himmler had his way, it would not be the woman who would be banished.

  He resorted to the lie, which, if he had not invented, he had refined:

  “What would you say, Canaris, if I told you that I knew Fräulein O’Dea was Jewish, or anyway, half-Jewish? No, no, I was not playing with fire,” he said as Canaris, usually adept at hiding his thoughts, had raised the thick eyebrows. “I had heard a rumour to that effect and I decided I should try and nail it, one way or the other, myself. I discovered it only last night. I confronted her with it and she confessed. Her mother, a Jew, is in Ravensbrueck. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Fräulein O’Dea will finish filming tomorrow, on my orders, and she will be deported at once. If Himmler tries to make something of it, I shall anticipate him by telling the Fuehrer what I have learned. Perhaps I should have had Fräulein O’Dea more thoroughly checked before we engaged her, but I understand no one in Hollywood knows she is Jewish. They, like ourselves, all think she is Irish.”

  “What if Himmler lets out the news to the public?”

  “I don’t think the Fuehrer will allow that. Not in view of what is going to happen tomorrow. He wants the country, and particularly its Ministers, united, not divided.” He stood up, went back to his desk; his limp was less pronounced. “Thank you, Heir Admiral. I shall not forget your friendship. If I can do anything for you . . .”

  “Only if something happens to the Fuehrer—which God forbid.”

  “Of course,” said Goebbels. “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” said Canaris and somehow got his arm up.

  11

  I

  ON WEDNESDAY night Carmody had come home from the office at eleven o’clock to find Meg Arrowsmith waiting for him. As he crossed the street he saw the Invicta parked outside his front door. As far as he knew there were no other Invictas in Berlin; it was Meg’s challenge to the superiority of the Mercedes. As he reached the low-slung car she got out of it.

  “I’ve been waiting ages, darling.”

  “I’ve been at the office. Why didn’t you phone me there?”

  “I wanted to see you here—privately. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

  He was tired and he did not want to spend an hour or even half an hour listening to her. He was worried too: he had called Cathleen, but there had been no answer from her either from the studio or her apartment. “Meg, can’t it wait? I’m absolutely shagged out—”

  “It can’t wait!” Her breath was heavy with gin, but she did not appear to be drunk. “Please, Sean—”

  He opened the front door, ushered her in, then led the way up to his flat. Once inside he said, “Excuse me for a moment. I have to make a phone call.”

  He went into his bedroom, dialled Cathleen’s home number. He felt weak with relief when she answered. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried stiff—”

  “I’m sorry, darling.” There was a moment’s hesitation, then she said, “I went to see Goebbels.”

  “Oh Christ! What for?”

  “I had no choice—it was a Reichsminister’s order. That was what he said.”

  “What did he want?”

  “To tell me that he knows Frau Hoolahan is a Jew and that she’s in Ravensbrueck, where he says she’ll stay.”

  “Does he know she’s your mother?”

  “No. But if he sends some sort of order tomorrow—or if he’s already sent it—” Her voice broke; then she recovered. “They won’t let her out.”

  He tried to sound reassuring, though his own sudden depression equalled hers. “From what I know, he can’t issue orders about the camps—they’re under the SS. He’d have to do it through Himmler. I don’t think he’d ask any favours of that bastard.”

  “He might, just to get back at me.”

  “Do you want me to come over and spend the night?”

  Again there was a moment’s hesitation. Then: “I’d like you to, but you better not. I have an eight o’clock call. Let’s both get a good night’s sleep. I don’t want to look like death warmed up when we meet Mother tomorrow.”

  “Will you be able to get time off from the studio?”

  “I’ve seen Karl Braun. He thinks I’m having trouble with my exit permit—”

  “Are you?” He would have to think about getting his own, just in case.

  “I haven’t applied. But Karl doesn’t know that. He’s giving me a two-hour break. It’ll be a rush, but at least I’ll be there to welcome Mother. Will you be there?”

  “Of course.” He told her he loved her, said goodnight and hung up.

  When he went back to the living room Meg had helped herself to a large gin-and-tonic from the bottles on his sideboard. He poured himself a beer and sat down opposite her.

  “Cathleen?” she said and he nodded. “I wasn’t eavesdropping, darling. I just guessed. I wish I had someone to call me to wish me goodnight.”

  He hoped it was not going to be a maudlin hour or half-hour. “Meg, why did you want to see me?”

  “Darling—can’t you do s
omething? Who’s writing the truth about what is going on here?”

  “I think we’re all writing the truth. Or trying to. Your friends don’t make it easy for us, not the way they use the Big Lie.”

  She made a conciliatory gesture. “I know—it’s that little swine Goebbels. But everyone wants peace, don’t they? If England goes to war over Poland—” She looked moodily into her drink, as if it were a dark bottomless well into which she would like to plunge. “Can’t you write a story that is a plea for peace? Something all the papers would run. Ask them to give up Poland—”

  “Ask who?”

  “Us. The English and the French. What does it matter if Danzig or Poland becomes part of the Reich? Has Austria suffered? Or Sudetenland?”

  “They were mostly Germanic people. The Poles aren’t.”

  He was angry at her, but held himself in. He was tired enough, but she looked beyond that, as if she were just the fragile shell of what she had once been, ready to shatter into tiny pieces when she came to the last immovable blockade. He did not want to be the cause of that shattering, but his innate kindness was running out. There is just so much charity of which one is capable; even saints, in the end, run out of it. Or, if they don’t, they have drawn on the Divine, and not the human, stock.

  “Won’t war be worse for them? Germany will take over Poland anyway. If they could be persuaded to give in peacefully—”

  “Meg,” he said wearily, standing up and putting his half-drunk glass back on the sideboard, “whatever I wrote wouldn’t have the slightest influence. Not if any of the correspondents wrote it. War’s going to happen anyway—Hitler is determined on that—and if I wrote something like you suggest, I’d be branded forever as an appeaser, like Chamberlain and his weak-kneed mob at Munich. Whatever I am, Meg, I’m not an appeaser. I wasn’t brought up that way and I’m not going to change now. I think it’s time you went home.”

  “Home?”

  “England preferably. But go home to your flat for tonight. You’d better face it, Meg—your mate Hitler has let you down. Everybody’s had enough of him, including England. They’re going to stand up to him from now on.”