Midnight in Europe: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  But the WC was empty. Past the sinks and urinals and toilet stalls was another door, unmarked, with the look of a door that was usually locked, now standing open, which led to a hallway with concrete walls and floor and a ceiling light in a wire cage. Ferrar ran down the hallway, turned a corner, and came upon another door, also open, with a street beyond. Of de Lyon, Szarny, and Lohr, there was nothing to be seen.

  He emerged on a side street, went around the corner, and discovered a line of taxis waiting outside the dance hall. Where were Lohr’s Gestapo pals? Ferrar realized they didn’t exist and never had. Lohr had tricked him, had managed an arrest, or a theft, or both, by finesse.

  Ferrar looked at his watch and saw that it was almost eleven o’clock. Should he follow de Lyon’s instructions and go back to the Kaiserhof? No. He had no idea why Lohr had left him upstairs, perhaps he didn’t like the idea of facing two adversaries, or his scheme had involved only de Lyon and Szarny, he hadn’t planned on a third man. Still, to go back to the Kaiserhof might leave him vulnerable to arrest, and who he really wanted to see, if there was anything to be done for de Lyon, was Frau Vaksmann. He opened the door of the first taxi in line, climbed in, and gave the driver the address in Lübecker Strasse.

  The driver was a bearded man in middle age, something of the artist about him. “Driver,” Ferrar said. “I am having problems of the marital sort, a confidential agent is involved, could you make sure we aren’t being followed?”

  The driver laughed. “Marital problems my ass,” he said. Then laughed some more. “If you knew, my friend, how often I have to listen to this sort of thing … it’s as though half the city is being followed. Anyhow, I will try to help you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Ferrar said.

  The driver was true to his word, found a traffic circle, and went around three times, cut across the path of a tram by a whisker, then shot down a side street, stopped dead, and looked in his rearview mirror. “All is good,” he said. And he did not take Ferrar to the front of the Pension Vaksmann. Better, he told Ferrar, to be out of sight, and drove through an alley where the sides of the taxi almost touched the walls, pulling up in front of a door that he said was the back door of the address Ferrar wanted. Ferrar gave him a tip that was well beyond generous. The driver thanked him and said, “Perhaps I’ll even get to spend it,” and drove off into the night.

  Ferrar knocked at the iron door, the neighborhood silent around him. He waited, then knocked again. And a third time, louder. Three very long minutes later, he heard the rattle of a chain, then the door opened to reveal Frau Vaksmann in a flannel bathrobe over a nightgown, her hair in a hairnet, a Luger pistol held at her side. “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Where’s Max?”

  “Arrested, or something else, but taken by a Gestapo officer.”

  She swore, then said, “Anyhow, come in out of the cold. There’s nothing we can do tonight.” She pulled the door shut and relocked the chain. “You need a couple of brandies, Herr Ferrar, that I can see. And, tomorrow, we’ll try to …” She was silent, lips compressed, until she said, with a hitch in her voice, “Poor Max.”

  It snowed the following morning, light but steady, the air icy and still. Ferrar had slept in one of the guest rooms. He had, at least, tried to sleep, but it was a failure—four stiff brandies having had no effect whatsoever. More than once he’d untangled himself from the bedding, gone to the window, and looked out on the Lübecker Strasse. Not a soul in sight, the empty, silent street oppressive. All night his mind had spun through endless possibilities, none of them of any use.

  At seven, Frau Vaksmann knocked at his door and said, “Come down to the kitchen, I’ll make us coffee.” When Ferrar got to the kitchen, Frau Vaksmann was once again in her housedress, standing at the stove. “We don’t have much time,” she said, pouring coffee for Ferrar. “Or it may be too late but, to the Gestapo, you see, someone like Max is a toy, and they’ll want to play with him until they grow bored. They’ll interrogate him … they might do worse, but not right away. What that means is we must use the most powerful connection we have, and we must understand there is only one chance. So, Max will have my best, a Gestapo major-general, an SS-Oberfuehrer, a member of the Nazi party since the 1920s. I’ve known him a long time, he brings young girls here and makes a great racket and, in return, sometimes he does me a favor. But to him I am no more than a colorful character in his orderly life, he finds me amusing, not to be taken seriously. It is better for you to go, he will listen to you because you are an important person, and may even be of use to him some day. Will you try it, Herr Ferrar?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll telephone him in an hour, he is very diligent and comes to work early. He is called Alfred Menke, SS-Oberfuehrer Menke, say it as much as you’re able, he never tires of hearing it.”

  •

  At nine-thirty in the morning it was still snowing as Ferrar walked up the steps of Gestapo headquarters on the Wilhelmstrasse. All along this avenue, that bordered the Tiergarten, Hitler had built monolithic, concrete office buildings, the power centers of the thousand-year Reich. Ferrar was as well prepared as he could be. He had left the pension immediately after Frau Vaksmann made her telephone call, headed for the Kaiserhof. Here he shaved while his suit was being cleaned and pressed by the hotel valet service and his shoes polished to a high gloss by the hall porter. Then he put on a fresh shirt from his valise and chose a midnight-blue tie with three angled gold stripes. At last he put on his overcoat, brown leather gloves, and maroon wool scarf, then picked up his briefcase—a crucial prop in the role he had determined to play—took the elevator to the lobby, and walked down the Wilhelmstrasse. At Gestapo headquarters he was expected, showed his papers at a desk—where the information on his passport was copied down—and was escorted by two SS officers to the top floor, then waited in a reception area where four secretaries were clacking away on typewriters and answering telephones. Finally, an hour later, he was taken in to see SS-Oberfuehrer Menke.

  Alfred Menke was a strange-looking man, severe and ice cold, Ferrar could imagine his ancestors as Prussian civil servants, police officials, or prison wardens. He was tall and thin, with sunken cheeks in a long, narrow face, his hair a gray bristle, his skin dry and papery; he looked like a man who had never been outdoors. On the wall above his desk, the standard color portrait of Adolf Hitler, the desk itself bare but for a telephone, a pad, and a pen. He directed Ferrar to a chair and said, “Good morning, Herr Ferrar.” His voice was as dry as his skin.

  “Good morning, Herr Oberfuehrer, thank you for granting me an appointment on such short notice. I am here on behalf of my client, whose name is Max de Lyon.”

  Menke had Ferrar spell the name and wrote it on his pad. “You are an attorney, Herr Ferrar?”

  “I am, Herr Oberfuehrer.”

  “And do you practice here, in Berlin?”

  “No, Herr Oberfuehrer, I am a senior partner at the Coudert law firm, in Paris.”

  Menke nodded, made a note on his pad, and waited for Ferrar to continue.

  “My client, Herr de Lyon, was arrested last night by one of your officers, who identified himself as Obersturmfuehrer Jozef Lohr.”

  Menke wrote the name on his pad and said, “Arrested for …?”

  “In fact I don’t know. We had gone to the Casanova dance hall, and there Herr de Lyon was taken into custody.”

  “This de Lyon, he is a citizen of the Reich?”

  “No, Herr Oberfuehrer, he is of Swiss nationality and, like me, is resident in Paris. We traveled to Berlin in order to meet with a gentleman named Szarny, who is the owner of a foundry in Czechoslovakia, and had expressed interest in investing in one of Herr de Lyon’s businesses in Paris, the publication of magazines.”

  “Very well, your client is a substantial businessman, but, even so, must respect our laws. Tell me, did he perhaps say something that could be taken as a defamation of the Reich, or of our political leaders? A witticism, perhaps?”

  “I dou
bt he would do that, Herr Oberfuehrer. Herr de Lyon has little interest in politics, though I can say he is not unsympathetic to the Reich, he was looking forward to visiting Berlin, ‘the new Berlin’ is how he put it to me. I accompanied him in case Herr Szarny wished to have papers drawn up regarding the investment.”

  “I see. And what were you two gentlemen doing at the Casanova?”

  Ferrar hesitated, then said, “We were staying at the Kaiserhof, and wanted to see something of Berlin’s nightlife. In truth, being away from home, we hoped to meet young women.”

  “Tell me, Herr Ferrar, did the officer make any explanation at the time of the arrest? It would be the usual practice for him to do so.”

  “I did not witness the arrest, Herr Oberfuehrer. Accompanied by Herr Szarny, Herr de Lyon had gone downstairs to the WC. The officer approached me, produced his identification, which is how I learned his name, and ordered me to wait where I was. Which I did, for fifteen minutes, then went downstairs to look for my client. Who was not there and had, so it appeared, left the dance hall by means of a service exit that led to the street.”

  As Menke thought this over, Ferrar sensed, more than saw, some flicker of irritation in his lifeless expression. Then the Oberfuehrer picked up his telephone, dialed a single digit, and said, “Have last night’s arrest records reached us yet?” He waited for a response, and said, “Find me a man by the name of de Lyon.” He spelled it, then covered the receiver with his hand and said to Ferrar, “This might take a minute, it would be typical for us to record two to three hundred arrests a night, we are a busy service here.” Then, responding to an answer, he said, “Try under L.” A minute later he said, “You’re sure?” Then hung up the phone.

  “It seems,” he said to Ferrar, “that the arrest was not recorded. We do have a category ‘brought in for questioning,’ but these actions are not recorded as arrests.” He paused, once again picked up the telephone, and said, “I want you to contact an Obersturmfuehrer called Jozef Lohr. Immediately, and have the call put through to me.”

  Impatient, Menke tapped his fingers on the desk, then said, “While we are waiting to reach the officer, I will take down your information. The telephone number at your law office, your home address, and the telephone there.” After a moment, he added, “If you don’t mind, Herr Ferrar.”

  “Not in the least, Herr Oberfuehrer.”

  When the information was written down, Menke said, “Sometimes I find myself in situations where it might be of use to contact someone at the Coudert office.”

  So he knew what Coudert was—Ferrar had made sure to use the name. “Naturally I would welcome such a contact. We are mostly involved in international law, and we serve many elite clients.” Like you.

  When the telephone rang, Menke asked Ferrar to step into the reception area. Ferrar sat there, feeling he had reason to hope. When he was summoned back to Menke’s office, he could sense that Menke was, in the way of the powerful, about to bestow a favor on a supplicant. “In this service, we prize ambition in our officers; however, sometimes …” He stopped there, wrote something on his pad, removed the slip of paper, and handed it to Ferrar. “I have written down an address where your client may be found.”

  Ferrar took the piece of paper and said, “Herr Oberfuehrer, please accept my deepest and most sincere gratitude.”

  Menke nodded, which meant it was time for Ferrar to go. As he passed through the reception area, he saw what he took to be Menke’s next appointment; a well-dressed woman, taut with nerves, and her beautiful, and very frightened, teenaged daughter.

  Ferrar wasted no time. Out on the Wilhelmstrasse, amid the heavy official traffic—gleaming black Grosser Mercedes automobiles with swastika flags mounted above the headlights—he found a taxi. He showed the address to the driver and asked if he knew the street.

  The driver squinted at the paper and said, “I think so, this is in the eastern part of Berlin, down by the Oder-Spree Canal, a port for barges.” Then he added, “Not a place to go at night, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Once the driver turned away from the major avenues, the taxi passed workers’ tenements, women in kerchiefs gossiping in front of grocery stores, finally pulled into a narrow side street, then rolled to a stop in front of a crumbling, soot-stained building with broken windows. To Ferrar, it looked abandoned. “Here, sir?” the driver said. “It is the address you showed me.”

  “Then this is where I’m going. Will you wait for me?”

  “I will, sir. You won’t find another taxi down here.”

  The lock on the front door had been broken. As Ferrar climbed the stairs, he heard the sound of scurrying rats and, when he reached the second floor, he saw that the stairway leading up to the third floor had been boarded over. There were two doors on the second floor, Ferrar tried the first, which was locked, then the second, which opened to reveal Max de Lyon sitting in the corner of a couch. There was a kitchen chair in the center of the room, one side of de Lyon’s face was red and swollen.

  De Lyon leapt to his feet when he saw Ferrar. “You did it!” he said. He threw his arms around Ferrar for a moment, then stepped back quickly—he reeked of nervous sweat and he knew it.

  “Is there anyone else here?” Ferrar said.

  “No, they’re gone. A guard, he looked like a local thug, appeared late last night because Lohr had to go somewhere. Then, about a half hour ago, another one showed up, a messenger. He told me to wait, ‘your lawyer is coming to pick you up,’ he said, unlocked the handcuffs, and both of them left.”

  Ferrar offered de Lyon a cigarette and took one for himself. As de Lyon inhaled, he closed his eyes. “Let’s get out of here, Max,” Ferrar said. “I’ve got a taxi waiting downstairs.” As they walked down the staircase, Ferrar said, “What did they do to you?”

  “Lohr handcuffed me to a chair and slapped me around for a while, just to let me know who was in charge. A vicious little fakakta momzer, Herr Lohr.”

  “Fa … what?”

  “Fucking bastard, in shtetl Yiddish.”

  “Where’s Szarny?”

  “Lohr counted the money, then let him go. First he said something that made Szarny flinch.”

  “What did he want from you?”

  “Money. He meant to hold me for ransom.”

  “And you said?”

  “I said I would try to arrange it … pleading, like the sniveling gutter rat he wanted me to be. We’re not finished with this, Herr Lohr and I.”

  As they approached the taxi, de Lyon said, “Cristián, how in hell did you manage it?”

  “Frau Vaksmann’s idea, I went to see a big shot at the Gestapo, where I played the high-priced lawyer.”

  “Which you are.”

  “Which I am.”

  De Lyon wanted to go and thank Frau Vaksmann immediately but Ferrar suggested they stop at the Kaiserhof first—de Lyon could clean up and change clothes and … He didn’t go on, not wanting to say too much with the driver listening. “You’ll see,” Ferrar said. At the Kaiserhof, de Lyon went off to his room while Ferrar waited for him. When he returned, Ferrar said, “I have a feeling that Szarny is still here,” then picked up the telephone and asked the operator to connect him to Herr Szarny’s room. The phone rang for a long time and Ferrar was about to give up when Szarny answered, apparently out of breath, his “Yes?” hesitant and fearful.

  “Herr Szarny, is everything all right? My name is Ferrar, I’m Max de Lyon’s lawyer, and I arranged to have you released.”

  “You did?”

  “They promised they would let you go, I just wanted to make sure they kept their word.”

  “I am very grateful,” Szarny said.

  “Herr Szarny, may we drop by your room for a moment? There’s more I need to say.”

  “Yes, I suppose so, I’m just sitting here.”

  Szarny answered the door, then collapsed into a chair, head in hands. Ferrar was horrified at the sight, he’d never seen a man so dominated, it was as though s
omeone had stolen his mind. And, in a way, Lohr had done precisely that, had used his greatest gift, a talent for intimidation—a useful talent in the right time and place: he essentially owned this poor man.

  They got to work right away. Asked Szarny what he liked to drink, then had a bottle of cherry brandy sent up to the room and began, slowly at first, to administer it. The alcohol helped, so did the conversation. When de Lyon referred to Lohr as “that pimple on the devil’s ass,” Szarny smiled, a victory.

  “He was blackmailing me,” Szarny said. They nodded, quite overtly not asking why.

  “He won’t again,” de Lyon said. “If he tries it, you telephone me in Paris and I’ll make sure it’s taken care of.”

  “I had a mistress,” Szarny said. “My wife is not well, and her oldest friend was so sympathetic …”

  “It happens every day,” de Lyon said—we’re all men of the world.

  “He threatened to write my wife a letter, so I gave him money and I gave him money and then, one day, he said that Germany would soon rule Czechoslovakia and he would make sure to have himself stationed there, so he could ‘take care of me in person.’ Then he asked for a lot of money.”

  De Lyon looked at his watch and said, “It’s almost one o’clock, I think you need something to eat.” He picked up the telephone and asked for the room-service waiter to bring up an extra-large bowl of the famous Kaiserhof specialty: liver dumplings in potato soup, the soup flavored with bits of sausage and leek.