The Honest Spy

by Andreas Kollender

  Don’t you try that again. Take your fucking hands off my woman! “I know,” Fritz said.

  “What did you say?”

  “Oh no,” Fritz said. “Duty calls. I have to get back to the office. Frau Wiese, do enjoy the chocolate. Herr Wiese, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  They said good-bye. Just as Fritz closed the door, wanting to scream, Marlene called him back in. Her schedule showed an appointment in the Visa Department tomorrow at ten thirty.

  “Perhaps we’ll run into each other,” Fritz said. Gerhard Wiese’s hands, which had been resting on Marlene’s shoulders, moved lower down her front, nearly touching her breasts. Fritz could feel the hard metal of his revolver in his jacket pocket. He was sweating, his heart cramping. He thought he might be sick.

  He headed back through the mourning city to the bombed-out Wilhelmplatz, unchained his bicycle from the U-Bahn entrance, and rode home, snaking his way around the craters and rubble, around the black holes and the tar flecks from burned tires, and around trees, their charred remains mere splinters pointing into the gray sky. Most streets were getting hammered so badly, bicycling them would soon be impossible.

  In his apartment, he lay on the bedsheet, smoking. In his mind, Marlene was here, her body, her blue eyes, that resounding laugh. My God, he thought. A husband away for so many months coming back to a woman like that—he would sleep with her. That mouth Fritz loved so would moan for another.

  Stop that! Stop doing that!

  He slapped his beloved globe off the table with an angry swat and the earth split apart, continents and oceans flying away and teetering on their curvatures along the floor. He let the multicolor pieces lay there and reached for a cognac bottle he’d stolen from the Office. The alcohol burned his throat. He turned on his People’s Receiver and waited for news of the bombing of the Wolf’s Lair and the death of Adolf Hitler. It did not come. He shook the radio, trying to wrest the news out of it. Nothing.

  He gathered up the remains of the world, piled them carefully in his hands, and placed them on a piece of paper. Tears were squeezing out of his eyes and he couldn’t stop them. All this Heil Hitler shit, this revolting game that never ended—and now Marlene’s husband was back in Berlin as well. He clutched his forehead with his hand and cursed. I can’t do this much longer, he thought. I just can’t.

  The next morning he walked into his office without greeting a soul and slammed the door shut. Von Günther was in Paris and von Ribbentrop had withdrawn to his mansion again. Fritz stared at the dozens of swastika-marked documents on his desk, then pushed them aside and looked at the Allgäu picture over the safe. He tried not to think of Marlene but only ended up thinking even more frantic thoughts about her.

  Someone knocked. “What is it?”

  The handle turned and the door opened to reveal a fair hand with long nimble fingers, a dark-blue suit, and chestnut hair. Marlene slipped inside. She used her back and both palms to push the door shut, her body bent forward a little like she was about to jump. Fritz could read her face: the despair, the worry. Was there love there too? Deceit?

  “Lock it,” he said.

  Without turning, Marlene felt for the key in the lock and turned it twice. Fritz heard the lock click. She removed her hat and let the pins out of her hair.

  She came to him. Fritz lifted her onto the desk and pulled her overcoat off her shoulders. He pushed up her skirt, tugged on her panties, heard the sound of tiny seams splitting. Their breathing merged, they kissed greedily and deeply, clawing at each other’s bodies as if climbing down a mountainside. The folders slid around under Marlene’s behind, her flesh pressed to the table, tearing a swastika on a folder in half.

  “You,” he said.

  “You,” said she.

  Afterward, they lay with his body against hers, her arms around him, their clothing damp with sweat and the scent of love. Marlene giggled, saying her leg was going to fall asleep in this position. Fritz glanced down at his trousers, which lay wrapped around his feet like a cloth figure eight, and laughed.

  They looked at each other, holding each other’s hands.

  “Let’s not talk about anything right now, Fritz.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

  When it was time to go, Marlene put her hand on the door handle and looked back at him.

  “I love you,” she said. She’d never spoken these three words—the most important in life—to him till now.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “I love you too,” he said.

  Marlene looked pale against the green walls of his office, her hair darker.

  “I just love looking at you,” he said.

  “My husband’s waiting.”

  “God.”

  Her kiss was a bite.

  “Are you doing all right, Marlene?”

  “No. You?”

  “No.”

  “But we’re doing it. Doing something. That’s a good thing.”

  Once she was gone he grabbed a handful of the Nazi documents and pressed them to his face. They smelled of Marlene’s skin, of her dampness, and a little bit of her perfume. She had told him she had only a few drops left and had put it on for him. The documents had absorbed it.

  One by one, Fritz worked his way through the files. A spy in Rome was reporting in about the Vatican: the Pope had openly stated that he was hoping the Wehrmacht would hold its ground against the Russian onslaught. In addition, no resistance was expected from the Church regarding further deportations of Jews from Rome. Such holy fucking clerics, Fritz thought.

  A man in Washington—codename Willi—had sent a report on the state of President Roosevelt’s health. He estimated the president’s condition would only worsen and agreed with the Führer that the alliance of Germany’s enemies would fall apart should Roosevelt die, Heil Hitler.

  Fritz read a list of places where Winston Churchill stayed when he traveled, to be forwarded to a commando unit in Plön along with recommendations concerning an operation to eliminate the prime minister. Then he stumbled on a letter from some blowhard writing to his Dearest von Ribbentrop, extolling the complete freedom they were enjoying in the East. Fabulous! You really won’t come visit even once? You’re gathering dust there in your office. Do come out and watch how we work.

  The areas where Hungarian partisans were in retreat had been marked on a map. Someone was complaining about the precarious situation in Italy and ranting about the weakness of the Führer’s friend Mussolini.

  Page by page, Fritz learned about reorganizing deliveries of parts for Messerschmitt Me 262 aircraft, repairs to rail lines, postponements in production, and growing suspicions about certain aristocratic, intellectual Wehrmacht officers. Jewry. Bolshevism. Obliteration. A subservient type addressing von Ribbentrop as Your Excellence respectfully took the liberty of describing the situation in Tokyo as not completely clear.

  There were assessments of the American armaments industry and secret reports on damaged U-boats that were supposed to anchor in Spain, and Dear von Günther was informed about espionage activity in Franco’s Spain.

  The documents sent by General Gehlen were written in the neatest hand. He reported at length on tactics, strategy, and Soviet partisan activity behind the front lines.

  The longer Fritz sat going through the files, the more Marlene’s scent faded. He addressed a letter containing the most important information he’d found to a certain Frau Pfäffli at the cover address in Bern, stuffed his notes into a pocket, and then carried the documents down to the basement. He watched the paper get devoured by the flames. Would Marlene’s love wither as quickly? Had their time together been nothing more than the adventure of a war wife who, like everyone else, didn’t know if she’d still be alive tomorrow? Her husband was a cartographer and a surveyor. Where were men like him stationed, exactly? Fritz watched through the holes punched in the burn barrels as the papers burned out, an edge glimmering here and there like a single thread runni
ng through it all. The room smelled of ash. I have the power, Fritz thought. It occurred to him that power might be the worst thing that could happen to a person.

  He went into the Foreign Office’s cartography archive, his head lowered. Metal lamps hung from the concrete ceiling, their glow muted like powder. The man at the desk told Fritz how nice it was to see him down here.

  “What can I do for you, Herr Kolbe?”

  Fritz planted both hands on the table. “It’s about one of your . . .”

  “Herr Kolbe?”

  “You know what? It’s fine. Pardon me. It was just an idea I had. A stupid idea.”

  Back at home, standing in his blacked-out rooms, Fritz called out her name. This was where he belonged. Marlene. Mar-lay-nah. He stared at the kitchen chair she always sat on, at the pillow she’d propped up, the imprint of her body still upon it. My God, he thought. In front of your own husband, you disguised yourself so expertly, so callously. You are doing the same as I, Marlene.

  Nervously scratching at his thumb till it bled, he asked von Günther if there was any news from the Führer’s headquarters. Visiting there recently for the first time, he said, had left such a big impression on him.

  “Yes,” von Günther said, “being close to such a historical phenomenon—and that’s what Hitler is, a phenomenon—does leave a deeply lasting impression. What will must reside inside that man. Especially now, yes? Surrender—now that’s a word the Führer does not know, Kolbe. After all that had to be done in Germany’s name over the course of this war, how do you think the enemy would treat us if we gave up now? No, we must stay the course.” Von Günther turned to the window overlooking Wilhelmstrasse, stroking the glossy white sill. Fritz was certain the ambassador realized that defeat was coming. Many were starting to realize that victory was impossible.

  “Listen to me, Kolbe.” Von Günther turned to him, his expression earnest. “That woman, the one I saw you with? Well, I happened to notice she was wearing a wedding ring. Don’t look at me like that. Pay attention to what I’m saying: no one is going to hear a word of it from me, you understand, no one. Not even my wife.” Von Günther slid a cigarette into his mouth and looked at Fritz from over the flame of his lighter, his eyes flickering. “You can rely on me, yes? As I do on you, Kolbe. I can indeed rely on you, can’t I?”

  “Completely, Herr Ambassador.”

  “And in every respect?”

  Just what was von Günther driving at? Why was he asking this? Go on the offensive, Fritz told himself.

  “In every respect, Herr Ambassador.”

  “You know, Kolbe, there’s simply too much talk going around, even here in the Office. I’m very glad you’re my secretary.” He chuckled. “You certainly are not a blabbermouth. When I tell you something, you always keep it to yourself.” He turned away, probably because his sudden openness embarrassed him. “Nothing else for now,” he said. “Back to your work, Kolbe.”

  At home, he now kept his hated People’s Receiver on constantly. All that came from it was contempt, rubbish, barbarity, the thunder of jubilant masses. Fritz sprang up every time Franz Liszt’s music came on to signal a special announcement. “Why are they not bombing the Wolf’s Lair? For fuck’s sake!” He slammed both fists on the table.

  Marlene kept calm. On the very evening of the day her husband departed, she showed up at Fritz’s apartment door. She had never seen him as enraged as he was waiting for the news of the bombing of the Wolf’s Lair. She reached for his hand. “Let’s go for a walk,” she said.

  They went out into the rubble and walked along paths that wound between hills of debris standing where there once had been streets, down to the Spree River where soot-black barges bobbed along on water gone filthy from war. On Marienstrasse they saw soldiers shoving a man in a torn shirt into a car. An officer in a leather overcoat stretched out his arm in the Hitler salute, laughed with one of the soldiers, and climbed into the vehicle. The overcoat gleamed like it was made of liquid metal. Marlene’s grip on his hand tightened.

  The Capitol Movie House in Charlottenburg had not yet been pounded into the earth by bombs. Marlene asked Fritz if he’d go to the cinema with her and Fritz accepted at once. Marlene was surprised, since he hated the films that came out of the Nazis’ studios.

  “But I’d gladly go to the movies with you,” he said. “We get to hold hands. I also learn things from actors. Things about becoming completely absorbed by a role. About acting like a different person than one actually is.”

  “Just don’t forget who you are,” Marlene said.

  They watched I Entrust My Wife to You with Heinz Rühmann. Fritz’s heart leapt as Marlene lost herself in the film, especially its scene of a chase through Berlin in a double-decker bus—a Berlin that was still so luminous. Why not, he thought as she laughed. Don’t stop—keep laughing, Marlene.

  During a visit to Fritz’s office, Walter Braunwein sat on the edge of his desk, causing the folders to slide out of place. “What do you think you’re doing?” Fritz said and put them back in neat order. Walter laughed.

  “What am I supposed to do?” he said. “You appear to have gotten rid of your other chair—which does sound like something you would do, Fritz.”

  “These documents are important, Walter. I need them organized, spotless, and easily accessible.”

  “You need them? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not for you to understand.”

  Walter stood and looked at the Allgäu picture, then glanced over his shoulder at Fritz. Not for the first time, Fritz considered that Walter might be seeing right through him. But the question remained unspoken, despite their friendship—or precisely because of their friendship.

  “The two of us went hiking there,” Walter said and tapped on the picture. Fritz was flooded with memories of fresh air and of looking out together over the green sea of the Alps.

  “We definitely have to do Ireland together. Bantry House, or the Cliffs of Moher. Man, that would be something. With Käthe and Horst and . . .” He pointed at Fritz. “Hey-ho. I still have not met your girl. Käthe really wants to as well—in her own way. Come by tonight for dinner. I could get ahold of something special for us to eat.”

  “When do you have to go abroad?”

  “We could really stuff ourselves.”

  “When do you have to go abroad? And where to?”

  “Stop with that, Fritz. Just stop.”

  When Käthe saw Marlene, her hands flew to her cheeks. Even though Marlene was a complete stranger, Käthe wrapped her arms around her. “Oh, okay,” Marlene said and laughed.

  “So this is the mysterious Marlene,” Walter said. He kissed her hand. “Our Fritz here is just crazy about you.”

  “He better be,” Marlene said.

  Walter invited her to the table. Fritz smelled onions and something tart, the scent making his mouth water. He slid his chair closer to Marlene’s. It was so nice visiting his best friend with her.

  “I was in Kiel on official business,” Walter said, “and guess what I got ahold of? You won’t believe it.” His hands hovered over the two covered porcelain bowls on the table. He let out a loud “Hey-ho!” and lifted the lids.

  “Pickled herring,” Marlene said. “I’ll be damned.” The fish had been browned and were swimming in stock along with thin rings of onion. Fritz fanned the aroma toward Marlene.

  They drank white Mosel wine that Fritz had stolen from the office. Only Käthe declined, saying it didn’t agree with her anymore. She stared at Marlene the whole time, and squinted when Fritz and Marlene touched each other. She kept turning horribly pale and looking as if her thoughts were a long way away. Walter tried entertaining the others with stories of Ireland, reaching for Käthe’s hand where it rested, next to the silverware. Fritz hoped to preserve their little get-together by telling stories about remote lands, but the mood kept spoiling, the specter of war and death showing itself in the white face of a distressed Käthe Braunwein. Fritz noticed that Marlene drank a lot, a
nd he thought this fitting.

  “You’re married,” Käthe said. She looked at Marlene but held her glance for only a few seconds. No one spoke. Walter poured more wine. Käthe held a hand over her glass again.

  “She’s my one and only,” Fritz said.

  A smile twitched on Käthe’s face. “That’s nice,” she said.

  “Do you know what else Fritz is up to?” Marlene asked them.

  Fritz grasped her arm tight.

  “No, what is he up to?” Walter asked.

  “Nothing,” Fritz said.

  “You sure about that, old buddy?”

  Marlene took a big gulp of wine. “He keeps stealing alcohol from the Foreign Office,” she said. “He does it all the time. He’s become a real expert at it.” She held her glass up for Walter to fill and then drank the contents down in one chug. “Fritz takes plenty of risks,” she told Käthe.

  As Fritz and Marlene staggered home, Marlene said Käthe was a stupid cow.

  “Naw,” Fritz slurred, “she’s a great gal.”

  “Yeah, before maybe,” Marlene said. “But that doesn’t count.”

  “She can’t help it.”

  “That’s what they’re all going to say, after the war.”

  One cinema after another was disappearing. At night their chilled ruins reflected the color of a full moon. Now movies were sometimes shown in darkened cellars, where Fritz and Marlene could hear the spooling noise the projector made and the sickly breathing of people who had to live in this ailing city. Marlene whispered to Fritz that Heinrich George really was a good actor, that Fritz could learn a thing or two from him.

  One time, Marlene’s friend Gisela came along. Fritz was meeting her for the first time. Gisela was a sturdy woman with full cheeks and unruly curls. “Nice to meet you. Marlene told me lots about you.”

  “Oh,” Fritz said.

  “Don’t worry, little guy. Gossip doesn’t matter. All that matters is how you live your life.”

  Once Fritz and Marlene were back home, Fritz complained that Gisela kept calling him little guy.