by Jina Bacarr
“No, Eve. I invited you here because she wouldn’t dare touch us in this restaurant with so many top Nazi officials frequenting this place.”
“Who? What are you talking about?”
“Laila.”
“Laila?”
“Yes, she contacted me a few days ago when she saw you in the lobby of the Hotel Adlon. She wanted to know why you were here in Berlin, traveling under an American name and passport.”
“How did she find that out?” I had been warned by my training instructor I was taking a chance on someone recognizing me in Berlin. I believed if they did, they would remember me as Eve Charles, chorus girl. This news unnerved me, set my heart racing. I never dreamed Laila was in Berlin. It was the kind of happenstance every agent fears, a moment when your cover is blown by sheer chance.
“Laila has friends in high places, very high places.” Maxi lowered her voice and relayed the information she had uncovered about Laila’s association with Haj Amin el-Husseini, the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem, the Arab leader who staged major influence over the Middle East political scene. Rumor had it, she said, he intended to align with Hitler since he believed an Axis victory was both inevitable and impending. Not to mention profitable.
He was a man who loved affluence, according to Maxi, so it was no surprise that Laila had endeared herself to him with her expertise in Middle Eastern antiquities. You can imagine my shock, dear reader, to discover that in preparation for his plan to join the Axis camp, agents of the Mufti were spread out all over Berlin. Laila was such an agent, telling Maxi with pride she was in the process of remodeling a suite for him at the Hotel Adlon with rare Egyptian and Iraqi artifacts when she saw me in the lobby.
I understood now how Laila had gained access to the Gypsy girl at Dachau with the help of her well-placed Nazi friends. No doubt she was working on another plan to steal the perfume from me when I showed up unexpectedly here in Berlin. I can imagine her disbelief at seeing me. I knew from what the Gypsy girl had told me that Laila was somewhere in Germany, but I made no mention of it to the Foreign Office. If I had, I believe they would have given the assignment to someone else.
Besides, as long as I wore Cleopatra’s perfume, I was convinced I was in no danger. But what if I were thrown into prison? It would be only a matter of time before the scent wore off and I would no longer be safe.
I leaned forward in my chair, my eyes looking everywhere, as if I expected to spot the Muslim woman spying on me. I still wasn’t convinced Maxi knew nothing about Laila being in Berlin. Had I fallen for the cruelest trick of all? Had Maxi betrayed me?
Our eyes locked; Maxi didn’t withdraw her gaze, but put her hand over mine and squeezed it. I squeezed back. I knew then she hadn’t told Laila anything about why I was here. In that moment, every hurtful word that had taken place between us was erased. I was greatly relieved, though quite sorry it took a war for us to put aside our differences and resume our friendship. Her next words, however, took me by surprise.
“I couldn’t help but notice your perfume,” Maxi said, keeping the conversation light as a Nazi officer strolled by, glancing in my direction. I half expected him to click his heels. “It’s the same fragrance you wore in Cairo, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” I said with apprehension, attempting to keep my voice steady.
“I’m afraid we aren’t so lucky here in Berlin, though smuggled French perfume with exotic and suggestive names are available on the black market.” She blinked and looked directly at me. “Laila asked me if you still wore the perfume.”
“What did you tell her?” I asked, avoiding her gaze.
“I told her I didn’t know.”
I let go of the breath I’d been holding, making the decision not to pursue the subject with her. The less she knew about Laila’s obsession with the perfume, the safer it was for both of us.
I changed the subject, asking her why she had postponed our first meeting. She said she became frightened when she was summoned to Goebbels’s office and questioned about her association with an American woman named Eve Charles. She called off our appointment out of fear, then she realized the information she possessed was more important than her life or mine. Yes, dear reader, she passed on that information to me during lunch, but I cannot reveal it to you. I know you understand why.
“Laila must have told the Gestapo about me,” I said, then I explained to her about the SS officer whose acquaintance I made at the hotel bar. “She sent that SS man to watch me, I’m certain of it.”
“That’s why you must get out of Berlin without delay.”
“No. If I do that, they’ll be suspicious and it could jeopardize the mission. I’ll play along with their game, keep them guessing. It won’t hurt for me to have a drink with the SS officer, flirt with him, let him think I’m interested in him.” To heighten his desire, I decided I would remove my brassiere and knickers and wear nothing but a nude-colored slip under my dress.
“What about your phony Swedish fiancé?” she asked. I had revealed my cover story to her when we sat down. “Won’t the SS officer question you about him?”
“I doubt it. I’m certain his male ego will be quite flattered knowing I can’t resist the charms of one of Hitler’s elite guards.”
Maxi couldn’t help but smile. “You haven’t changed a bit, Eve. It’s just like old times.”
“Yes, isn’t it?” I grinned, not realizing how wrong I was.
Berlin
April 29, 1941
Sitting at the desk in my room at the Hotel Adlon, writing my final entry in this diary, I can barely contain my excitement. Remembering what Maxi told me, knowing the far-reaching implications of the message I bear, I can tell you only that I possess a secret that could change the outcome of the war. I sense your frustration, I feel your anger. No doubt you’ve ripped up the diary. If not, I beg you to listen to me. I’m not attempting to cajole you with a game of charades, taking you on this journey then leaving you with no answer to the puzzle, but I have no choice.
I admit my first steps toward telling my story were selfish and erotic, filled with such satisfying memories of the three men in my life and my obsession with them, I experienced the warmth and deep comfort one has from reliving the past, but easier to achieve when we are separated from it. I assure you, dear reader, when the war is over, you will know what secret I possess.
I shall end this diary before I go downstairs to the hotel bar to meet with the SS officer, for not to do so will stoke his anger and further increase his curiosity about me. I shall miss you, dear reader, for this is the end of my story. Before I leave, I will conceal the diary in the false bottom of my steamer trunk, along with the invitation to Maxi’s photo exhibition next week. A beautiful invitation printed on parchment with exquisite engraving. A special process, I’m told.
As you may have guessed, I dally in my departure, for I have no doubt if you’re reading this, I did not return from my meeting with the SS officer. I shan’t go into the depths of what that means. Most likely, I’m languishing in the prison I mentioned earlier. I won’t survive more than a few days in there without the perfume, for I have no doubt they will torture me but not kill me until they get what they want from me. They won’t. Not even if they pull out my toenails, shave my head and burn me with cigarettes.
But I don’t wish you to leave with a bitter and vivid taste of what has happened to me; no, remember me as I have written it all down. Though I am gone, I pray my story will intoxicate you, make you smile, laugh, cry, and reach for the secret place moist and sweet smelling that gives you pleasure. All I ask of you…rather, I implore you, is to return this diary to Mrs. Wills of London, Mayfair, along with the invitation I mentioned. She’s a collector of such unusual items and will enjoy it.
Alas, dear reader, I have no regrets about the journey I have taken. It would be difficult for any woman not to fall under the spell of Cleopatra’s perfume, the fascination of a legend so dynamic, controversial, mystical, intense, adventurous, so ri
ch in history and eroticism, its promise of immortality the perfect aphrodisiac. Need I say more? I imagine you shall partake of the perfume once you close the diary. I envy you that first moment when the unguent melts between your palms and the aromatic smell of spices and florals overwhelms you. Your life shall never be the same.
And so I go to meet my fate.
With love, with hope,
I sign this V for victory,
Lady Eve Marlowe
April 29, 1941
21
Berlin
April 29, 1941
T he ringing of the telephone—persistent, demanding, screaming for his attention—jangled his raw nerves within moments after Chuck Dawn closed the diary. He didn’t answer it. He couldn’t. He felt drained, exhausted, yet somehow exhilarated, as if he’d undergone a transformation of spirit, a reawakening of his soul. Now he knew why he was drawn to the physical vibrancy she exuded in her walk, the way she stripped off her clothes in front of him and the SS officer at the lake, or leaned over and tempted him to pull on the perfectly round blue beads in her anus at the Cleopatra Club. Even then, he had been intrigued by her mysterious promise, her genuine poise and surety about who she was, a confident curiosity about her possessing him that led him on a journey he had undertaken against his will. What impressed him most was the unbreakable iron rod of obsession she wrote about in her diary—for her late husband, the Egyptian, and God help him, for him.
And he had lost her, well, hadn’t he? All this nonsense about Cleopatra’s perfume couldn’t be more than a deception to keep the Gestapo offtrack, a clever British-intelligence trick, and he, an officer in the RAF, had fallen under her spell while reading the diary, for he did believe, he did imagine her surviving the threats on her life.
Or, he preferred not to believe but must consider, was the diary a meditation about the relationship between the power of the mind and the unproven mystical effects of Cleopatra’s perfume?
He inhaled, sniffing, and he swore he could smell the scent of this female animal who had invaded his being with her intriguing arcs of vulnerability, sensuality and downright baseness. He ran his hands over the red silk-bound cover, different emotions racing though him. Amazement. Desire. More amazement, then even more desire. Was Eve Marlowe alive? Did she disappear when the SS officer shot her? Had she landed somewhere out of his sight, shaken but unhurt? That explained why he hadn’t found any trace of her. Was she wandering around the countryside, naked and cold, dazed and uncertain what to do next? If so, he couldn’t leave without her. No matter how dangerous, how foolhardy, he must stay here in Berlin, find her and tell her he understood. Understood everything…
The phone stopped ringing. Chuck tried to tell himself it was the front desk calling her about her luggage. A nervous clerk, they all were these days, afraid if they voiced their opinion of the grim undertow sucking the life of their culture they, too, would find themselves incarcerated. Or was it someone else? Would the Muslim woman called Laila be so daring as to call Eve’s room?
Putting the woman out of his mind, he flipped through the pages of Eve’s diary, each entry looking back on her life—particularly her wildly erotic descriptions of sex with various lovers, including himself, he noted with an ache in his groin—promising to deliver to the reader a ripened version of nirvana. He saw fervor, frenzy, delirium. And addiction. Her story could have belonged to that of a film-screen actress, her sumptuous poisonous lifestyle, explosive actions, and piled-up obsessions with men and drugs leading to a breakdown, then derailment and near devastation. Yet she rid herself of the toxins and had been willing to sacrifice her life to help win this war.
Eve. The scent emitting from the diary, both hers and the perfume, brought back to him in startling clarity the memory of holding her close to him, the feel of her firm breasts against his chest, pressing her tight against him so he could imagine all the wondrous possibilities of her body. He’d been around long enough to know when a woman was on the level. And she was. It wasn’t only her powerful erotic allure, that shimmering white-blond hair or voluptuous body. It was that indescribable quality about her that made her the embodiment of all women. He would no longer dismiss her as a selfish, pampered lady of the realm, not after reading her story. Not after living with her the extraordinary journey from Cairo to London and now Berlin. He had been swept away by her honesty, her observational skills, a sensual solemnity that gave him a sense that he was inside her mind. As her narrative unfolded within the pages of the diary, he rarely thought about the story having an overarching consciousness, so caught up was he in her fearless journey, yet at times there was a rough, could-this-really-happen rawness to the diary, making him shake his head at the vitality of her imagination, as well as her sexual exploits. Yet one thing scrambled his mind, playing fast and loose with his perception of reality: the perfume. Was it as powerful as Eve professed it to be? Would it save him from a violent death if he were captured?
Why not find out? Though he could imagine what the Gestapo would think if he was caught and he smelled like a whorehouse. Wait, he had a better idea. Even the secret police would understand a soldier carrying a woman’s personal item bearing her fragrance. He stuffed the diary inside his uniform jacket, knowing he was taking a chance by doing so, but he couldn’t leave it here. Then he searched through her steamer trunk and found what he was looking for: a silk stocking. Next he located the perfume, a solid unguent nestled in a plain box. In his mind he saw the perfume box as Eve had described it in her diary, its smooth lines fresh and evocative, the pointy breasts of the young queen Cleopatra beckoning him to open her treasure, as if she offered him her own honeyed essence to secure his fate.
He rubbed a small amount between his palms, allowed it to warm, then smeared the luxurious scent on his hands, his neck, and slipped the stocking anointed with the perfume with the rubbing of his fingers into his side jacket pocket. He was about to slide the box of perfume into his other pocket when—
“Give me the perfume.”
A woman’s voice. Sultry, demanding. He knew without turning around it wasn’t Eve. He didn’t move.
“I said, give me the perfume. Don’t you understand English?”
“I understand.” Chuck kept in the night shadows invading the room. He’d been reading for hours but had been careful to close the blackout curtain, lest he invite a knock on the door by irate hotel management. He hadn’t heard the foyer door to the bedroom open, the swish of the silk dress, long earrings dangling on her shoulders. Laila. He remembered her from that night at the Cleopatra Club when he took a poke at the Egyptian. Then it hit him. He was wearing an SS officer’s uniform. She didn’t recognize him.
“What are you waiting for?” she demanded. “You had your orders and I expected you to carry them out.”
“Ja?” Chuck said, waiting for her to reveal her game.
“You were supposed to seduce the American woman, take her for a swim in the lake, then murder her.” Her voice was high-pitched, intense. “She stole an important artifact that belongs to the Reich.”
Chuck understood her game. Most likely, Eve feared being interrogated by the political police more than being without the perfume for an afternoon tryst. By going for a swim in the lake, the perfume would wash off her skin, making her vulnerable to the German officer’s swift blade to her breast or his hands around her throat.
He watched Laila with curiosity but also with slight humor. The joke was on the Muslim woman. The SS officer showed no interest in feminine charms, but his penchant for killing had made him the ideal candidate to do the job.
Chuck gritted his teeth. If he hadn’t spotted Eve in the hotel lobby, she’d be dead. That thought pained him more than he would admit. But he hadn’t forgotten her mission. He bet it had something to do with the invitation she mentioned to him at the lake and also in the diary. He imagined it contained a message encrypted in code. He owed it to her to get it back to London and into the right hands at the Foreign Office.
“I can’t give you the perfume, Laila.” Chuck’s voice was blunt and to the point.
“Who are you?” She walked slowly, carefully, toward him.
“The man you sent to prison for a crime that was self-defense.”
“The American.” The expression on her face let him know that she wasn’t backing down. “What are you doing here? Where’s the SS officer?”
“At the bottom of the lake.”
“Where is Lady Marlowe?” she demanded. “And don’t give me any story about her being an American tourist. I’ve had her followed for days. She’s involved in some scheme and I want to know what it is.”
He asked, “Since when were you in charge of Hitler’s personal bodyguards?”
She smiled. “Since Herr Goering is interested in acquiring a most unusual perfume box belonging to Cleopatra.”
“I don’t imagine you mentioned the power of the perfume to him?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”
“Your scheme didn’t work, Laila. Eve is safe and out of Berlin.” It was a lie, but he had to get out of here. He couldn’t waste any more time on this woman and her jealousies. “I’ll be leaving—”
She pulled a gun out of her handbag. A Luger. “Don’t move or I’ll shoot.”
“You’ll have a hard time explaining why you shot an SS officer.”
“Not when they look under your left arm and don’t find the SS tattoo showing your blood type.”
Chuck countered with, “I wonder what Goering would say if he knew you’ve been selling him phony antiquities?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she insisted. “The provenance on every item I represent has been authenticated by a reputable source.”
“A source who has been well paid, I imagine. But then again, I don’t believe it would be difficult to put one over on these Nazis. You toss a phony story at them, knowing a lot of knowledge about a piece colors the way they’ll look at the item, and they see what they want to see.”
