As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  Major Miles, Rick decided, was all business and no heart. He was a good British officer. He would have made a good gangster.

  Sir Harold indicated a large map of the city of Prague. “One of the arguments in favor of such a plan is the very nature of the streets of Prague. The medieval city is essentially intact, which allows a potential assassin to get very close almost unnoticed. For that same reason, a sniper attack is less desirable. A rifle poking from an open window is too easily spotted.”

  “You mean it's far too dangerous for a sniper, then?” asked Renault.

  Major Miles's mouth twitched beneath his brush-cut mustache. His opinion of the French, always low to begin with, had been further lowered by their pitiful performance against the Germans in 1940. If he could have had his way, this operation would have no place for a frog. But wartime allies made strange bedfellows, and besides, the Free French had to be placated.

  “No, Monsieur Renault,” he corrected. “I mean it offers too much opportunity for failure. It could seriously compromise the success of the mission and therefore embarrass His Majesty's government.”

  “We can't have that, can we?” Renault observed.

  “No, we can't,” said the major, missing the sarcasm. “Poison is also out of the question because it presupposes a certain intimacy between assassin and victim, which we could hope for, but not count on. So, of course, does stabbing. Thus, a bomb is the most efficient and effective way of disposing of him.” The major's lips made a gesture that, for him, passed as a smile. “It also ensures our team of their best chance of escape. This is not, after all, a suicide mission.”

  “I’m not so sure about that,” said Rick.

  “Gentlemen,” interrupted Laszlo. “The major is right. Everything must and will go perfectly. We cannot have any misunderstandings, however slight. Nor can we have any compromises in our own security.” He looked at Renault, who stared back blandly.

  Major Miles spoke up. “The government believe it to be in the best interests of the war effort to give full and unequivocal support to this operation,” he said. “I might also add that this plan has been personally approved by President Eduard Beneš] and ratified by the Czech government-in-exile.”

  Rick waved his lighted cigarette in the air. “So where do Louie and I fit in?”

  Major Miles had a ready answer. “In Mr. Laszlo we have an exemplar of the central European resistance to Hitler. In Captain Renault, we will have a newly committed representative of Free France. And in Mr. Blaine”—he nodded in Rick's direction—”we have personified the industrial might and moral strength of the United States of America.”

  Despite himself, Rick felt a surge of patriotic pride. He hadn't felt that in a long time. Since 1935 hardly a day had gone by that he hadn't thought about New York, but this was the first time he had felt like an American again.

  “Herr Heydrich has a number of weaknesses,” said Laszlo. “He drinks too much. Thanks to his overweening arrogance, he takes unnecessary chances. He is resolutely unfaithful to his wife, who spends as much time in Berlin as she can, and he is fond of the company of beautiful women to a degree one might consider excessive.”

  Rick didn't have to wonder who that “one” might be.

  “Although he is the head of the Reich security service, we believe his own personal security can be compromised and breached.”

  “That doesn't sound too hard to me,” Rick remarked. “I’ve read about his driving around Prague in an open car.”

  “Yes,” agreed Laszlo, “but that knowledge is useless without also knowing his schedule and his movements. Heydrich lies well protected behind the walls of Hradcany Castle. We need someone who will be able to get close to him without arousing his suspicions.”

  “In other words, you need a spy in his headquarters.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Who?”

  “Me,” Ilsa said softly.

  Rick started, sending his cigarette ashes flying. Might as well send her straight to hell and ask her to keep tabs on the devil.

  “I am proud to say that my wife, Ilsa, has agreed to act as our agent-in-place in Heydrich's headquarters,” said Victor. “That is to say, as our eyes and ears in the command headquarters of the Reichsicherheitshauptamt itself.”

  “You can't be serious,” said Rick.

  “I am,” Laszlo replied. “Perfectly. So is Ilsa.”

  Rick looked at Ilsa, but her eyes betrayed nothing, and her lips said nothing. Now it was clear: as far as Victor was concerned, this wasn't an impersonal act of war, the way it was to Major Miles. This was a grudge match between Laszlo and Reinhard Heydrich, the worst kind of fight.

  Laszlo rose and began walking around. Rick prepared himself for a sermon by lighting another cigarette.

  “We have a chance to strike a blow for freedom that is given to few men of our time. If I could, I would destroy Hitler himself. We can't. Therefore, regrettably, we must settle for one of his lieutenants. Reinhard Heydrich is the man we wish to kill.”

  “You mean the man you wish to kill,” said Rick, “because he slapped you in a concentration camp for a while. This is starting to sound personal to me.”

  “Very well,” said Laszlo unemotionally, “the man I wish to kill.”

  Rick was struck again by the man's imperturbability. “Still, there's something here I don't like. No, it's not the plan, or the bomb, or how we deliver the bomb. That's your business, not mine. You're the experts. I said a moment ago that this was starting to sound personal to me, and I’ll say it again. I don't like it. I’ve had to kill a few men in my time, and I’m not proud of it. It was war, and it had to be done, whether it was Ne—” He caught himself. “Whether it was in Spain or Africa or I don't know where. But when you kill a man, you'd better do it quick and you'd better do it right, or he'll come back after you with everything he's got. Because now it's personal for him, too.”

  Renault spoke up. “I must say my friend Ricky is right,” he began. “I do not for a moment doubt the sincerity of Monsieur Laszlo's animus, nor do I question its origins. A stretch in one of the late Major Strasser's concentration camps is enough to put anyone off his feed. But I wonder, if you will permit a citizen of France and a true son of Descartes to say so, if emotion is getting the better of reason here.”

  Major Miles looked at Renault with a grudging respect. “I cannot stress enough,” he said, “the seriousness of this mission and the importance my government attaches to its success. You have all been selected for it because of your skills, not your emotions.”

  “I wasn't aware I was auditioning,” said Rick.

  “Oh, but you were, Mr. Blaine,” said the major. “In Ethiopia, and in Spain, when you went up against insurmountable odds—and lost.” Sir Harold turned to Louis. “I can't say that your bona fides haven't given us some sleepless nights, Monsieur Renault. Your abrupt departure from Casablanca hard on the heels of Major Strasser's murder and Mr. Blaine's disappearance, however, has given you a convincing alibi as a nonperson. I have no doubt that you will impressively impersonate a Vichy official with the new identity we will give you.”

  “I believe your offer is the only one on the table, Major,” said Renault. “That makes it good enough for me.”

  “As for you, Mr. Laszlo, there can be no doubt about your sincerity, or your desire to see justice done to the defiler of your homeland.” Laszlo nodded. “With you, though, there is something more at work.” The major thumbed through a dossier. ” ‘Victor Laszlo,’ ” he quoted, reading. ” ‘Born in Pressburg, now known as Bratislava, Czechoslovakia. Languages: Hungarian, Czech, German, French, and English. Nationality …’ “ He paused. “ ‘None.’ ”

  “A situation I have dedicated my life to rectifying,” said Laszlo.

  “There, there, Mr. Laszlo,” Sir Harold soothed. “One of the distinguishing peculiarities of this war is how so many of those involved are not what they first appear. Herr Hitler is not German, but Austrian. Mr. Stalin is not a Russian,
but a Georgian. Even our own Prime Minister, Mr. Churchill, is half American.” The major paused to sip from a glass of water.

  “My father was from Vienna,” Laszlo responded. “But I feel myself Czech. Czech was my mother tongue. I was raised with the stories of Czech heroes, of Šarka and of the great rock at Vy&scaronehrad, and of Hrad&caronany Casde, the ancient residence of the Kings of Bohemia. In Czechoslovakia, we have been struggling against the Germans for hundreds of years. They tried to destroy our language, they tried to destroy our people. They colonized Bohemia and Moravia, they forbade our music to be played in our theaters. Although we are Slavs, they have dragooned our blondest, most blue-eyed women into their evil Lebensborn program, and the rest of us they would enslave, as they would enslave all the Slavs whom they do not kill. Where, in fact, does your English word ‘slave’ come from, if not from ‘Slav’?”

  He turned to Rick. “Yes, Mr. Blaine, it is personal. It has always been personal. And you dare criticize me—you, who have never spent one minute enjoying the hospitality of Reinhard Heydrich and his ilk! You, who have never seen your loved ones killed—simply for being your loved ones… .”

  “I wouldn't be too sure of that,” Rick said under his breath.

  Laszlo, however, had not heard him. “You, from a country which has never suffered in wartime, never seen the slaughter of its people, never been challenged upon the international stage. You, with your jazz music and your skyscrapers and your Negroes and your Chicago gangsters. You, safe and secure behind your Atlantic Ocean barrier. While we Czechs sit in the heart of Europe, surrounded by enemies and yearning for freedom!” Laszlo wrung his hands. “You say this is personal with me? I say—it should also be personal with you!”

  “Maybe it is,” said Rick.

  Laszlo fell silent for a moment. Then he spoke: “You mean my wife.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Gentlemen,” said Major Miles, “if we could please return to the business at hand.”

  “With pleasure,” Renault agreed. “Business is something we French understand. But have we considered the question of retaliation?”

  Everyone was still, even Major Miles.

  “It seems to me,” said Renault, taking advantage of the silence, “that the Germans are not going to take the assassination of Heydrich lying down. Indeed, they've never shown the slightest inclination to do so in the past. When Tito's partisans shoot a Nazi in the Balkans, a hundred innocent people die in response. Our plot to blow up his cabrio as he tools through the streets of Prague may well succeed. But what about the innocent lives that may be lost? What about reprisals?”

  Silence all around. Laszlo looked uncomfortable. Major Miles looked annoyed. Renault looked on.

  “Now who's the sentimentalist?” Rick asked Louis.

  “Not sentimentalist,” Renault replied. “Pragmatist. There's a difference.”

  Sir Harold cleared his throat. “Do you suppose,” he asked Renault in a tone that suggested he'd been insulted, “that we have not considered that eventuality?”

  “That, Major,” said Renault, “is exactly what worries me.”

  A knock at the door brought an adjutant with some papers for Miles to sign. When the major turned back to the group, Rick spoke up.

  “Did you think this up all by yourselves, or did you get it from Rube Goldberg?” he said. “I mean, this is the dumbest thing I ever heard of. It's too complicated, for one thing. Too many people are involved, which means there's going to be leaks. The element of surprise will be gone.”

  Agitated, he lit another cigarette. “It's also far too dangerous. You're talking about infiltrating a team led by Laszlo here behind Nazi lines. If the slightest thing goes wrong, we'll be rolled up in a matter of hours. Worse, you've got Ilsa, Miss Lund, stuck in Prague, where they'll probably execute her as soon as the operation goes sour. If Laszlo were captured alive, even if he was somehow able to hold out in the face of the worst kind of torture, how long would it be before they figured out that they had his beloved wife as well? Laszlo may not want to sing to save his own hide, but he'll croon like Crosby to save hers.”

  He wished he could get a drink. “It just won't work,” he concluded. “Major Miles, I’ve been involved in some crazy schemes in my time, but this one takes the cake.”

  “Monsieur Blaine … ,” Laszlo started to say, but Rick turned on him.

  “And you—I should have left with Ilsa on that plane and left you to rot in Casablanca,” he said angrily. “I thought we had a deal, and in my book you've just welshed on it.” He sat down. “There, I’ve made my speech,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, it's that simple.”

  “No, Richard,” Ilsa said softly. “It isn't.”

  All eyes turned to her as she spoke.

  “Richard,” she said, “I want you to listen to me. Really listen.” The intensity of her glance left him no alternative.

  “Every time I do, I get a different story,” said Rick, trying to fight her allure, and failing.

  “This is no time for games!” she exclaimed. “I’m not doing this because Victor has asked me to, or because the British have asked me to. I’m doing this because I want to. For me, for my family. For my father.”

  Her eyes were flashing, as they hadn't since Paris. Then, they'd flashed with the passion of love. Now, they flashed with another kind of passion.

  “Remember back in Paris, when you asked me where I was ten years ago?”

  “Yeah,” said Rick. “You said you were having braces put on your teeth.”

  “So I was,” Ilsa replied. “Braces paid for by my parents, whom I loved very much. I was just a silly girl, only fifteen, but already I knew what a great man my father was, about the important work he was doing for my King and for my country. During the next decade I only grew prouder of him, as he rose in the cabinet, all the way to Minister of Defense. To be Edvard Lund's daughter was the greatest honor I could imagine—until, in Paris, I became Mrs. Victor Laszlo.”

  Laszlo picked up the thread. “A few weeks after the Germans marched into Prague, I fled to France,” he said. “I tried to keep the presses running as long as possible, but it was no use. The Underground begged me to leave, to tell the world what the Germans were really like, about what they were planning for the rest of Europe. I didn't want to go to England, because of Chamberlain and the Munich Pact. Sweden might have been safer. But France seemed as committed as I to the struggle against Hitler.”

  Ilsa resumed her narrative. “I never worried about my parents back home in Oslo. Who would have imagined that the Nazis would invade Norway? Then, in April of 1940, they did. Everyone was taken completely by surprise. Yes, the British had mined our harbors, but we thought that would discourage the Germans, not provoke them. That false sense of security lasted right up to the moment they kicked the door to my father's house down, roused him and Mother from their beds, and forced them downstairs at gunpoint.”

  She shivered at the recollection. Rick wanted to put his arms around her. Laszlo sat immobile.

  “ ‘Are you Edvard Lund?’ “ one of the soldiers demanded. When my father answered yes, the officer drew a pistol and shot him dead on the spot. They left my mother there, on the floor of her house, weeping over his body.

  “I do not make this decision lightly,” Ilsa informed the gathering, but looking directly at Rick. “Richard, you think this is Victor's idea, because he wants revenge for what they did to him in Mauthausen, and you're right. But this is my revenge, too. Don't try to take it away from me.”

  Rick Blaine was amazed by what he had just learned about Ilsa Lund. Back in Paris they had said no questions. Back in Paris he'd thought he was the one with the bad memories. Back in Paris he'd thought he was the only hard-luck case in the world.

  “I still don't see why you have to risk your life by going to Prague,” he objected. “Why don't you leave that to Victor and Louie and me?” He turned to Sir Harold. “Major, why can't we send a man to infiltrate Heydrich's operation? Su
rely there must be a Czech in London who speaks the lingo and knows the territory and—”

  Victor Laszlo waved away his protests. “Monsieur Blaine,” he said, “I’m sure you do not mean to insult me by implying that I would willingly place my wife in unnecessary danger if there were another way. Allow me to explain to you why Ilsa, and Ilsa alone, must go.”

  “No, Victor!” commanded Ilsa. “Let me.”

  She looked at Rick the same way she had the last time they were together in Paris—at his club,La Belle Aurore, dancing to the strains of “Perfidia” with the sounds of the big guns thundering in the distance. With tenderness, and love, and worry, and distraction, and a secret knowledge of what she was about to do. Only this time she was sharing that knowledge with him in advance.

  “Richard,” she began, speaking to him, the tough guy from New York, as if he were a child, “you don't know these people as we do. If we were to send a German-speaking Czech from the Resistance here in London, the chances that he would be recognized, informed upon, denounced, and shot within the first week are more likely than not. No one knows me there. With a little help from British Intelligence, I can be whoever I say I am.

  “Thanks to Victor”—she nodded at her husband— “our marriage, indeed our whole relationship, has been kept a secret from everyone. This was to protect me. But now I can wield it like a weapon against them. They will never suspect that I am the wife of Victor Laszlo.” She let out a little laugh of nervous excitement. “Besides, a man could never get as close to Heydrich as a woman could.”

  “Why not?” asked Rick. In his experience, no gangster worth a damn ever let a dame get close enough to see the color of his folding money except when he was out on the town with her. Women and business didn't mix.

  “Because they don't think about women, that's why not!” said Ilsa. “Because to the Germans, a woman is all but invisible except in the kitchen and, from time to time, in the bedroom. They would never have a room full of male secretaries handling top-secret documents because eventually they would have to shoot every one of them, just to be on the safe side. Why do you think Hitler has six secretaries—and except for Martin Bormann every one of them is a woman?”