by Alan Furst
His wife nodded. “To a place called Zbaszyn.”
“Deported,” Baumann said. “A sixty-three-year-old woman, deported. What in God’s name will she do in Poland? ” He stood up abruptly, then walked to a bookcase by the window, took a large book down and thumbed through the pages. “What is it called?”
“Zbaszyn.”
Baumann moved the atlas under a lamp and squinted at the page. “Warsaw I could understand,” he said. “I can’t find it.” He looked up at his wife. “Did she think to call ahead for a room at least?”
Szara stood. “I’ll have to be going,” he said. “The police will …”
Baumann looked up from the book.
“I think you should get out,” Szara said. “This must involve thousands of people. Tens of thousands. Next they’ll find someplace to send you, it’s possible.”
“But we’re not Polish,” Frau Baumann said. “We’re German.”
“We’ll get you out,” Szara said. “To France or Holland.”
Baumann seemed dubious.
“Don’t answer now. Just think about it. I’ll have you contacted and we’ll meet again in a few days.” He put his raincoat on. “Will you consider it? “
“I’m not sure,” Baumann said, evidently confused.
“We’ll at least discuss it,” Szara said and, looking at his watch, headed for the door.
Outside, the still air was cold and wet. A rickety ladder got him to the roof of the shed; from there he mounted the wall, hung by his hands to decrease the distance, then dropped the few feet to the ground. His exfiltration time was 10:08, but the forced exit had made him early, so he waited in the woods as he’d done before. In the silence of the Grunewald neighborhood, he heard what he took to be the brief visit of the cousin: opening and closing car doors, an idling engine, muffled voices, doors again, then a car driving away. That was all.
29 October.
Szara decided that calling Marta Haecht on the telephone was a bad idea; a conversation necessarily awkward, difficult. Instead he wrote, on a sheet of Adlon stationery, “I’ve returned to Berlin on assignment from my paper. I would like, more than I can say in this letter, to be with you for whatever time we can have. Of course I’ll understand if your life has changed, and it would be better not to meet. In any case your friend, Andre.”
He spent a listless day, trying not to think about the Baumanns. There was no Directorate plan to take them out of Germany, and he had no authorization to make such an offer, but Szara didn’t care. Enough is enough, he thought.
The following morning, Szara had an answer to his letter, in the form of a telephone message taken at the Adlon desk.
An address, an office number, a date, a time. From Fraulein H.
31 October.
Szara stood by the open window and stared out into the Bischofstrasse, shiny with rain in midafternoon, wet brown and yellow leaves plastered to the sidewalks. The damp air felt good to him. He heard Marta’s heavy tread as she moved across the room, then felt her warm skin against his back as she hid behind him. “Please don’t stand there,” she whispered. “The whole world will see there’s a naked man in here.”
“What will you give me? “
“Ah, I will give you that for which you dare not ask, yet want beyond all things.”
“Name it.”
“A cup of tea.”
They walked away from the window together and he sat at a table covered with an Indian cloth and watched as she made tea.
The room was a loft on the top floor of an office building, with large windows and a high ceiling that made it the perfect studio for an artist. Benno Ault. So the name read on a directory in the great, echoing marble lobby below, vestige of a lost grandeur. Herr Benno Ault, Room 709. And he was? According to Marta, “a university friend. Dear, sweet, lost.” An artist who now lived elsewhere and rented her his studio as an apartment. His presence remained. Tacked to the walls-painted an industrial beige many years before, now water-stained and flaking-was what Szara took to be the oeuvre of Benno Ault. Dear, sweet, and lost he may well have been but also, from the look of the thing, mad as a hatter. The unframed canvases writhed with color, garish yellows and greens. These were portraits of the shipwrecked and the drowned, pink faces howled from every wall as saffron oceans pulled them under and they clawed at the air with grotesque hands.
She brought him tea in a steaming mug, standing by his chair and spooning in sugar until he told her to stop, the curve of her hip pressed against his side. “It’s sweet the way you like?” she said, innocent as dawn.
“Just exactly,” he said.
“Good,” she said firmly and arranged herself in a nearby armchair, a huge velvet orphan that had seen better times. She spread a napkin across her bare tummy-a pun on decorum, as though she were a Goya nude minding her manners. When she sipped her tea she closed her eyes, then wiggled her toes with pleasure. The background for this performance was provided by a giant radio with a station band lit up bright amber, which had played Schubert lieder since the moment he’d walked in the door. Now she conducted, waving a stern index finger back and forth. “Am I,” she said suddenly, “as you remember?”
“Am I?” he said.
“Actually, you are quite different.”
“You also.”
“It’s the world,” she said. “But I don’t care. Your letter was sweet-a little forlorn. Did you mean it? Or was it just to make things easy? Either way it’s all right, I’m just curious.”
“I meant it.”
“I thought so. But then I thought; after an hour, we’ll see.”
“The hour’s over. The letter stands.”
“Soon I must go back to work. Shall I see you again? Or will we wait another year? “
“Tomorrow.”
“I haven’t said I would.”
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
She had answered his knock at the door in a short silk robe tied loosely at the waist-just purchased; the scent of new clothing lingered on it beneath her perfume-hair worn loose and brushed out, red lipstick freshly applied. A woman of the world now, looking forward to an assignation in the middle of the day. Seeing her like that, framed in the doorway, stunned him. It was too good to be true. When she lifted her face to him and closed her eyes he felt like a man suddenly and unexpectedly warmed by sunlight. He actually, for an instant as they embraced, felt her mouth smile with pleasure. But after that everything-being led by the hand to a sofa, pillows kicked off, robe flung away-happened too quickly. What he had imagined would be artful and seductive wasn’t like that at all. It wasn’t really like them. Two other people, then, very hungry, urgent, selfish people. They laughed about it later, but things were different and they knew it.
At one point she’d raised her head from the sofa and whispered delicately next to his ear. The words were familiar enough, a lover’s request, but they had shocked him-because they were German words and the sound of them unlocked something inside him, something cold and strong and almost violent. Whatever it was, she felt it. She liked it. This was a very dangerous place to go, he sensed, but they went there just the same.
He had wondered, later on, drinking tea, how much she understood of what had happened. Was this eternal woman, accepting, absorbing? Or had she, for a moment, become his companion in decadence, playing her part in some mildly evil version of a lovers’ game? He couldn’t ask. She seemed happy, making jokes, wiggling her toes, content with herself and the afternoon.
Then she got dressed. This too was different. By degrees she became a working woman, a typical Berliner: the ingenuous, vaguely Bohemian Marta, adoring of Russian journalists, was no more. Garter belt, stockings, a crisp shirt with a rounded collar, a rusty tweed, mid-calf-length suit, then a small, stylish hat with a feather- the perfect disguise, ruined at the last when she made a little-girl brat face at him: what they called here Schnauze, literally snout, a way of telling the world to go to hell. She gave him a cool cheek to ki
ss on the way out-not to ruin the lipstick-and rumpled his hair.
He stayed for a time after she left, drinking tea, watching out the window as a cloud of starlings swerved away through the rainy sky. The radio program changed, to what he guessed was Beethoven- something dark and thoughtful at any rate. The city drew him into its mood; he found it almost impossible to resist, became autumnal and meditative, asked questions that really could not be answered. Marta Haecht, for instance: had she, he wondered, become so newly sophisticated at the hands of other lovers? Certainly, that was it. Who, he wondered. That was, in his experience of such things, always a surprise. Him?
With a Russian girl he would have known all. Every private thought would have been bashed about between them, plenty of tears to wash it all down with, then forgiveness, tenderness, and wild-likely drunken-love-making to paste everything back together again. Poles and Russians knew how hidden feelings poisoned life; in the end the vodka was just a catalyst.
But she wasn’t Russian or Polish, she was German, like this damned sorrowful music. The reality of that had come home to him when they were on the sofa. What was that? The Eastern conqueror takes the Teutonic princess? Whatever it was, it was no game.
Restless now, wishing that Marta hadn’t gone back to work, Szara walked around the room as he got dressed, confronted by Ault’s maniacal paintings. Strange people, he thought. They make a virtue of anguish. Nonetheless, he began counting the hours until he’d see her again and tried to shake off the sense of oppression gathering in his heart.
Perhaps it was the influence of the building itself. Dating from the early days of the century, its long hallways, set in tiny octagonal black and white tiles, echoed with every footstep and lived in perpetual dusk, a grayish light that spilled from frosted glass door panels numbered in Gothic script. Called Die Eisenbourse Haus, the Iron Exchange Building, it had certainly been some builder’s cherished dream. There was no Iron Exchange, not that Szara knew about. Had one been planned, perhaps somewhere nearby? Only its adjunct had been built, in any case, seven stories of elaborate brickwork with the name in gold script on the glass above the entryway. The elevator would have been installed later, he thought. It was enormous, an anthill intended as home to every sort of respectable commerce. But the builder had raised it in the wrong place. Bischofstrasse was across the river Spree from the better part of Berlin, reached by the Kaiser Wilhelm bridge, on the edge of the ancient Jewish quarter. Had a commercial district once been planned here? The builder evidently thought so, locating just west of the Judenstrasse, across from Neue Markt, between Pandawer and Steinweg streets.
But it had not turned out that way. The building stood as a grand edifice among tenements and dreary shops, and its lobby directory told the story: piano teachers, theatrical agents, a private detective, a club for sailing instruction and a club for lonely hearts, an astrologer, an inventor, and Grommelink the cut-rate denture man.
Szara rang for the elevator, which wheezed ponderously to the top floor. The metal door slid open, then a soiled white glove slowly drew the gate aside. The operator was an old man with lank hair parted in the middle and swept back behind his ears, fine, almost transparent skin, and a face lined by tragedy. He was called Albert, according to Marta, who thought him an original, rather amusing, the ruling troll of the Castle Perilous, her moat-keeper. Szara, however, was not amused by Albert, who stared at him with sullen and intense dislike as he got on the elevator, then sniffed loudly as he slammed the gate. I smell a Jew, that meant. On the wall above the control handle were taped two curling photographs of serious young men in Landwehr uniform. Sons dead in the war? Szara thought so. As the floors bumped slowly past, Szara repressed a shiver. He never would have imagined Marta Haecht living in such a place.
But then there were all sorts of new things about Marta. Wandering about in the apartment, he’d found a wooden rack holding a further collection of Ault’s paintings-these evidently not worthy of display. Idly curious, he’d looked through them, come upon a pink nude standing pensively, almost self-consciously, amid frantic swirls of green and yellow. Something familiar piqued his interest, then he realized he knew the model, knew her in that very pose. All sorts of things new about Marta.
The elevator came to a stop. Albert opened the gate, then the exterior door. “Lobby,” he said harshly. “Now you get out.”
Back in his room at the Adlon he closed the heavy drapes to shut out the dusk, locked the door, and lost himself in ciphering. Using the German railway timetable Goldman had handed him-a very unremarkable find if he were searched-he converted his plaintext into numerical groups. In his statement to the Directorate he’d been extremely cautious, in fact deceptive: the broken man in the Grunewald, described as he was, would set off alarms and excursions all over Dzerzhinsky Square. Dr. Baumann was not under anyone’s control, including his own, and Szara could only imagine what the Directorate might order done if they found that out, especially the Directorate as led by Dershani.
The report described an agent under stress yet operating efficiently. Stubborn, self-motivating, a prominent and successful businessman after all, thus not just somebody that could be ordered about. Szara strengthened the deception by implying, faintly, that the Directorate should soften its instinct for bureaucratic domination and acknowledge that it was dealing with a man to whom independence, even as a Jew in Germany, was instinctive, habitual. Baumann had to believe he was in control, Szara suggested, and to perceive the apparat as a kind of servant.
But if Baumann was steadfast, Szara continued, the situation as he found it in Germany was extremely unstable. He described the telephone call from the cousin forced to return to Poland, noted the disbursement of emergency funds, then went on to suggest that OTTER ought to be offered exfiltration-if the time should ever come-followed by resettlement in a European city. Against that day, Baumann Milling ought to hire a new employee, as designated by the case officer, who would remain in deep cover until activated. Szara closed with the statement that he would be remaining in Berlin for at least seven days, and requested local operative support in arranging a second meeting.
He grouped his numbers, did his false addition, counted letters in the timetable a second time, just to be sure. Garbled transmissions drove Moscow wild-What’s a murn? And why does he ask for raisins? — and he urgently needed to have their trust and good faith if they were going to accept his analysis of the situation.
He walked the half block to the embassy, a place the journalist Szara would be expected to visit, found his contact, a second secretary named Varin, and delivered the cable. Then he disappeared into the Berlin night.
He had, oh, a little company, he thought. Nothing too serious. Nothing he couldn’t deal with.
Said Goldman: “There are two situations which, if I were you, would be of concern: (a) You find yourself truly blanketed- perhaps a moving box: one in front, one behind, two at three o’clock and nine o’clock, go down an alley and the whole apparatus shifts with you. Or maybe it’s people in parked cars on an empty street, women in doorways. All that sort of thing, they’re simply not going to let you out of their sight. Either they insist on knowing who you really are and where you’re going, or they’re trying to panic you, to see what you do. You’ll break it off, of course. Go back to the hotel, use your telephone contact, the 4088 number. There’ll be no answer, but one ring will do the job.
“Or, (b) you ought to be alarmed if there’s absolutely no sign of surveillance. A Soviet journalist in Berlin must, must, be of interest at some level of the counterintelligence bureaux. The normal situation would be periodic, one or two men, probably detectives who’ll look like what they are. They’ll follow at a medium distance. Ideally, don’t go showing them a lot of tradecraft-if you’re too slick it will provoke their curiosity. If you can’t dispose of them with a casual maneuver or two, give it up and try again later. A normal approach for the Germans would be to tag along at night, leave you free in the daytime. But if it’s-what? t
he Sahara, then be careful. It may mean they’re really operating-that is, they’ve put someone really good on you, and he, or she for that matter, is better than you are. In that case, see the second secretary at the embassy and we’ll get you some help.”
Very well, he thought. This time the little genius in Brussels knew what he was talking about. Out for a stroll, Szara lit a cigarette on the Kanonierstrasse, standing in front of the vast gloomy facade of the Deutsche Bank, then, stranger in your city, he peered about him as though he were slightly at sea. The other man lighting a cigarette, about forty meters in back of him, visible only as a hat and an overcoat, was company.
Not a good night for company. With ten thousand reichsmarks wadded up in his pockets he was headed toward the Reichshallen theater for a meeting with Nadia Tscherova, actress, emigree, RAVEN, and group leader of the RAVEN network. Tscherova would be available to him backstage-not at the grandiose Reichshallen but at a small repertory theater in a narrow lane called Rosenhain Passage-after 10:40. Szara refused to hurry, wandering along, waiting until he reached Kraussenstrasse before making a move to verify the surveillance. If he didn’t make the treff tonight, Tscherova would be available to him for three nights following. Run by Schau-Wehrli with a very firm hand, RAVEN was known to follow orders, so Szara relaxed, taking in the sights, a man with no particular place to go and all the time in the world to get there.
About Tscherova he was curious. Schau-Wehrli handled her with fine Swiss contempt, referring to her as stukach, snitch, the lowest rank of Soviet agents who simply traded information for money. Goldman’s view differed. He used the word vliyaniya, fellow traveler. This term was traditionally reserved for agents of influence, often self-recruited believers in the Soviet dream: typically academics, civil servants, artists of all sorts, and the occasional forward-looking businessman. In the sense that Tscherova moved in the upper levels of Nazi society, he supposed she was vliyaniya, yet she was paid, as were the brother and sister Brozin and Brozina and the Czech balletmaster Anton Krafic, the remainder of the RAVEN network. As for the highest-level agents, the proniknoveniya-penetration specialists serving under direct, virtually military discipline-Szara was not allowed anywhere near them, though he suspected Schau-Wehrli’s MOCHA group might fall under that classification, and Goldman was rumored to be running, personally, an asset buried in the very heart of the Gestapo.
