Night Soldiers ns-1

by Alan Furst

  How long? Had Vladi Z., his companion in the internment camp, been one of them? If so, they had been running him, an unknowing provocateur, since the day he left Spain. And he had fled from Madrid after a telephone call from none other than Ilya Goldman. Yet Yaschyeritsa’s threats had been real enough. Or maybe not. Had they tried to panic him that far back?

  A bullet-headed thug, with pale hair sheared to a bristle, swung out of a doorway and matched his pace. All sorts of specialists, Ilya had said, were now operating in Paris. The city would be crawling with them. He knew that NKVD search brigades, the sort of units that descended on suspicious activity in the villages, could be ten thousand strong. Not that they would try anything like that in France, but they had people in abundance and they used them abundantly.

  He wanted to go to the bookstore where he had met Aleksandra, and he wanted to go alone, so he lost the cars by taking the Metro for two stops. That left him with Bullet-head and a fat-faced man in the Moscow version of a business suit. They stayed with him as he wandered around the back of the Fifth-the university quarter-among students hurrying to early class at the various facultes of the Sorbonne scattered through the district. He entered one of the classroom buildings and moved through the corridors and up and down the staircases in a tight press of humanity. When he finally left the building, Fat-face was gone. Perhaps he had given the whole thing up, Khristo thought, humiliated by student derision at his colossal suit, and defected to the registrar. Khristo glanced behind him-not even deigning to use the standard shop-window-as-mirror-and saw that Bullet-head was sweating up a storm, the last man left. A passenger got out of a nearby taxi and Khristo waved it down. Then watched through the rear window as the NKVD man ran in frantic circles looking for another. He rode three blocks, paid the driver, and stood back in a doorway as Bullet-head sailed by in his own taxi, terrified, surely, that such an expense would not be approved by his bosses.

  Later that morning, Khristo stood in the bookstore, browsing among the thick, uncut volumes on surrealism and Marx. On the far wall was a poster, in livid red and black, celebrating the Republican effort in the Spanish war. There were stark crosses above graves and a shadowed face of great determination and strength looking into the near distance. In fiery letters, lines from the poet John Cornford were spread across the paper. Cornford, a poet and Marxist from Cambridge, had died at twenty-one, a machine-gunner in one of the international brigades. “Nothing is certain, nothing is safe,” the lines read. “Everything dying keeps a hungry grip on life / Nothing is ever born without screaming and blood.”

  He watched the clerks in their blue smocks, moving about the store. How had Aleksandra fitted into this milieu? Her politics, he knew, were the politics of survival, her own survival. Larger questions were not germane-theories bored her; passions belonged in bed, not on the speaker’s platform. Her absence stabbed him suddenly, and he said her name silently and dropped a book back onto a table.

  “Captain Markov?”

  At that name-his cover in Spain-he froze.

  Turned slowly to the source of the voice and found Faye Berns. His first impression of her was long hair, washed and shining, and jade-colored eyes, lit up with recognition, meeting his own. On second glance, he saw that her face was sallow and exhausted, that life had not been easy.

  “Did I startle you?” she said.

  “Yes,” he said, “a little.”

  She took his arm as they crossed the street to a cafe. The touch, at first, made him feel guilty, as though it desecrated his sorrow, as though it betrayed Aleksandra. But he could not deny its warmth, he could not deny how good it felt. They sat beneath a striped awning and drank cup after cup of coffee. She told him the story of her life those past few months, her eyes shining with unshed tears as she spoke.

  Andres had died.

  He had spent a long time dying, as doctor after doctor paraded through a rented apartment near the Parc Monceau that her father had paid for. Their plan, originally, had been to travel to Greece, where Andres had friends who would take them in. Perhaps they’d get married; at times they talked about it. Somehow, the tickets were never bought, there was always something else that had to be done. Renata Braun had left Paris in February, promising to write as soon as she was settled. They waited anxiously for a letter as the weeks went by, but it never arrived. Then Andres came down with a fever.

  At first they ignored it. The Paris damp-one had to grow used to a new climate. But the fever was stubborn. Various doctors were consulted, medicines of all sorts were prescribed, but nothing seemed to work. Slowly, the sickness grew worse, until she had to stay up with him all through the night, sponging the sweat from his body, changing the wet sheets. At times he fell into a delirium, shouting and whining, often in languages unknown to her. He was in Anatolia, he thought, and pleaded with her to hide him from the Turkish soldiers-he heard them coming up the stairs. She would go to the door and look out, reassure him that they had just left. She said anything that came to mind, anything to calm him, because his terror broke her heart. She wept in the bathroom, washed her face, went back to the bed, and held his hands until dawn.

  In times of clarity, he told her the truth about himself in great detail-where he had been, what he had done. His only regret, he said, was that the one thing in his life he had cared for, the Communist party, had turned on him. She argued with him about it-one could always care for humankind, could work for the oppressed. It had nothing to do with a printed card. But this line enraged him-she did not understand, he claimed-so she dropped it.

  He became sly and strange. Would hide his medicine spoon among the covers so she couldn’t find it and accuse her of telling the concierge his secrets. When she cleaned the apartment in the morning, he would not permit her to leave his sight. On his good days, he spoke of marriage. Passionately. They must have a child, he said, to continue his work. He begged her to bring a priest, a rabbi, whatever she wished. She told him it would be wiser to wait until he felt better and was his old self again. Her hesitancy angered him, and he accused her of infidelity.

  Then, with the coming of spring, he seemed to grow stronger. She took him on outings to the Parc Monceau, where he would walk with a jacket over his shoulders and lecture her on a range of political matters. He read the newspapers avidly and explained to her the historical implications of every event. Now, instead of hostility and suspicion toward her, he began to plot revenge against certain individuals in the Comintern who he believed had betrayed him. He became obsessed with the Russian poet Ilya Ehrenburg, claimed he was under strict NKVD supervision, and planned to write an article for a Parisian quarterly-the Nouvelle Revue Francaise-exposing Ehrenburg for what he was.

  But then, suddenly, on a day when he’d planned a visit to a museum, on a day when he’d made a telephone call, eaten an omelette, laughed at one of her jokes, he died. She returned from shopping and found him sitting on the couch with an open book in his hand.

  The tears came when she finished the story, and she was hunting through her purse when a waiter appeared with a clean white handkerchief, handed to her silently. “My God,” she said, “I will miss this city.”

  “I am sorry,” Khristo said, “for Andres. And for you. For what happened. If my English was better …”

  “Oh please,” she said, “I understand. And I didn’t mean to cry in front of you. It’s just … When I was sixteen, I used to daydream about a lover dying, to make myself feel sad, I think. But then it happened. It actually happened.” She looked around for the waiter, in order to return the handkerchief, but he was busy at another table.

  “I think he wants that you keep it,” Khristo said, searching for a word. “It is his …”

  “Gift?”

  “Yes, a gift.”

  She nodded that she understood and blew her nose. “Tell me about yourself,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Some bad things, some good.”

  “Andres explained to me about not telling people about yourself, how
important that was, so I understand.”

  “Yes,” he sighed. He wanted to tell her everything, resisted a desire to go on and on in riddles, telling but not telling, like Sascha. “What for you now?” he asked instead.

  “I am going home,” she said. “To America.”

  “Ah. For the best, no?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, uncertain. “Maybe. But the tickets are all bought and there’s no turning back now. I was in the bookstore looking for something to read on the boat-I really don’t want to listen to a bunch of Americans gossiping about their adventures in wicked old Europe.” She made a face at the thought. “Anyhow, I go up to Le Havre today on the train, I’m there overnight, board the Normandie tomorrow, seven days at sea, then it’s New York.”

  “What train do you take?”

  “Five-twenty from the Gare du Nord.” She was silent for a moment, not happy at the prospect of traveling. For a moment it seemed like she might cry again, a shadow crossed her, then, instead, she managed a gloomy smile. “How like Paris this is-to meet an old friend a few hours before going away forever.”

  “Some day you will come back here.”

  “Do you think so?” There was a real ache in her voice when she said it.

  “I do,” he said.

  “Funny, I don’t even know your name. I don’t suppose it’s actually Captain Markov.”

  “Khristo is my name. Then Stoianev-like your ‘Stephens.’ “

  “Khristo,” she said.

  “Yes. I have not heard it said for a long time. I use another name now.”

  Her eyes suddenly lit up and she smiled to herself.

  “Is funny?” he asked.

  “No. It’s just that my name isn’t Faye Berns, not really.”

  “Ah,” he said, “you have a cover.”

  “My name is Frances Bernstein,” she said. “But that sounded too much like just another girl from Brooklyn, so I changed it to Faye Berns.”

  He waggled a finger at her in mock reproof. ” Too much like true name,” he said. “Very bad espionage.”

  She fell silent in wonder at all that had happened to her, her eyes sought his and he realized suddenly that he was the last link to a life she’d lived in Madrid and Paris, that saying goodbye to him was saying goodbye to that. “I don’t think,” she said sadly, “that I can ever tell anybody what happened to me here. I don’t think they would believe it. And I know they wouldn’t understand it. Most people pretend that exciting things happened to them-I’ll have to pretend they didn’t. That’s what I should do, isn’t it?”

  He nodded in sympathy, it was a trap they shared. “Better that way,” he said.

  They ate lunch together. And he followed her around Paris for most of the afternoon while she worked her way through an extraordinary list of last-minute errands. He kept an eye out, from time to time, for surveillance, but none appeared, and they were going to places where he’d never been before.

  When all the items on her list were crossed off he helped her load a large, battered trunk into a taxi, then into a compartment on the train. He went down to the platform when the conductor blew his whistle, and she leaned out the top of the open window. “Can I write you a letter sometime?” she asked, her voice rising above the echoing noise of the vast, glass-domed station.

  He thought for a moment. “I don’t know where you could send it,” he said.

  “You may write to me, then. If you like.” She produced a fountain pen, shook it, and scratched a name and address on a scrap of paper.

  He took it from her and put it in his pocket. The conductor sounded two short blasts on his whistle and swung himself on board. There was a loud hiss of decompression and a cloud of steam billowed onto the platform. Khristo reached up with both hands and she took them in her own. They remained like this for a moment, then the train lurched forward and they let go.

  The twenty-fourth of June was the first warm summer night of 1937-the sort of night when everything was possible, when any dream could come true. Dusk was hazy and soft, as always, but the usual evening chill never appeared. Everyone in the city came out of their apartments, music spilled from the open doors of cafes, and the strollers, excited by the gentle air, made animated conversation and filled the streets with a music of their own. The clouds were low and dense that night, shutting out the stars, and the city felt like a lovely private room where a party would soon begin.

  When Khristo arrived at the brasserie, it was a madhouse. Papa Heininger, glasses askew, was glued to the telephone as reservations poured in. As he spoke, he made soothing gestures with his unoccupied hand, as though to placate the invisible caller. “I am desolated, but I must tell you that His Excellency’s usual table is simply not available at midnight. He may have it at one, or there is table fourteen-a quite estimable location in my opinion.” He nodded and soothed, nodded and soothed, as the caller spoke. “Yes, I agree … Yes, most unusual … Just for tonight, of course … Please thank His Excellency for his understanding … Thank you, goodbye.” He hung up and patted his brow with a folded napkin. “Djadja!” he called out to Omaraeff, standing over the reservation book with pencil at the ready, “Count Iava will take number fourteen tonight. Move the Germans!” Omaraeff asked where, for they hadn’t a spare inch of space in the entire establishment. Papa Heininger waved his napkin in the air. “Must I do the thinking for the entire world? I don’t care where you put them. You may seat them in the toilet for all I care. Tell them it is more efficient so.”

  So the night progressed.

  The florist arrived with sprays of Bourbon roses, fat, decadent-looking things in shades of maroon and lavender. The baker arrived with baskets of loaves. A party of Americans arrived too early, expecting to be fed. They were, despite some shouting in the kitchen, accommodated. The Beale party of six came up the marble staircase at 10:30-early for them-but the magical night had excited them beyond fashion. Slowly, the sound level grew to a magnificent bedlam-the music of forks and plates, the ring of crystal glasses touched in toast, manic conversation, unbridled laughter, shouted greetings to friends at far tables. The huge mirrors glittered red and gold, the waiters ran to and fro with trays of langoustines and bottles of champagne.

  And everyone was there.

  Kiko Bettendorf, the racing driver. The Duchess of Trent, accompanied by Harry and Hazel, her deerhounds. Dr. Matthew O’Connor and his “niece,” Miss Robin Vote, charming and melancholy as always in her tuxedo and bow tie. The mysterious Mlle. M.-tonight with both her lovers. There was Voyschinkowsky-“The Lion of the Bourse”-with a party of twelve. Fum, the beloved clown of the Circus Dujardin. Ginger Pudakis, Jimmy Grey, Mario Thoeni-the tenor, and Adelstein-the impresario-guests of Winnie and Dicky Beale. The Prince of Bahadur was accompanied by his Austrian nurse, who showed to advantage in a million dollars’ worth of the Bahadur royal emeralds. There was Kreml, the ammunition king, squiring the immense Frau Kreml, her mother, her sister, her cousin, and that nice woman from the hotel who was teaching them bridge. Count Iava. The Baroness de Ropp. Miss Catherine Fetwick-Mill. Mr. Antonio Dzur.

  Monsieur Escaldo, of Clichy.

  His silent associate, Monsieur Sarda.

  And their mentor, the handsomely attired Barbette.

  Escaldo and Sarda, in their long gangster coats, fedoras pulled down on their foreheads, Thompson guns held at the hip, caused great stir with their arrival. First of all, they did not have a reservation. Simply swept past Papa Heininger, Mireille the hat-check girl, and Omaraeff the headwaiter without a word. When they entered the dining room, they provoked an instant burst of excitement. Was life not sufficiently fantastique on this magical night? No, apparently not. For here were real “American” gangsters, a spicy addition to an evening that had already established itself as thrilling and glamorous. Vive le grand Capone! someone shouted, and glasses rang as other voices joined in the toast.

  With a cinematic flourish, Escaldo and Sarda raised their weapons and pulled the triggers. Muzzle flash
es danced and glittered at the ends of the barrels and the great room dissolved into splinters, a confusion of color and motion, screams and raw panic.

  Khristo was on the floor before he knew what was happening. A man in a cape jumped to his feet and sprinted for the exit, knocking him backward, first into a table of four, then onto the carpet. He heard the rounds buzzing over his head and burrowed down as the mirrors lining the walls dissolved in silvery showers of glass. These were sub machine guns-in effect, rapid-fire pistols using the same. 45-caliber bullet as the American military sidearm-so, even though they were fired into the ceiling and upper walls, whatever they touched virtually exploded, and diners groveling below the volleys were covered with plaster and mirror shards.

  It was a miracle that nobody was actually killed. Count Iava, having secured table fourteen for the evening, found himself pinned to the carpet by its weight, and nearly choked to death on a mouthful of baby lamb. Kiko Bettendorf, survivor of the Death Curve at Frelingheissen Raceway, would require fourteen stitches to repair the gash in his scalp. Frau Kreml, hiding beneath a table cloth and believing herself the object of a robbery, dislocated two fingers in a fruitless attempt to remove her rings. Ginger Pudakis stood up, a foolish thing to do, and had her forehead creased by a spent round that ricocheted from the ceiling. She then fell backward against a chair, blood trickling down her face. From where he lay, Khristo saw what happened next, though he was not able to think about it until later. Of all the people in the room, amid the shrieking and the gunfire, it was Winnie Beale who acted with courage. Seeing her friend hit, she leaped forward, from a position of relative safety on a banquette, and covered her friend’s body with her own.

  Barbette had disappeared, having elected to wander in search of Omaraeff, who had vanished from his usual position at the front of the room. Since he was the true object of this operation, Barbette was anxious to find him. He had not left the restaurant-Barbette had made sure of that. Nor was he in the Men’s Room. He was, however, in the Ladies’. In the last stall where he’d gone to hide, his legs bare, a red waiter’s jacket gathered around his ankles in imitation of a skirt.