by Alan Furst
ON
RAVEN
HILL
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7 November, 1937. The Polish Foreign Ministry, housed in an
elegant building on Saxon Square, held its autumn cocktail party in
the ministry library, removing the long polished tables, setting up
a bar--Polish vodka, French champagne, a tribute to the eternal
alliance--in front of the tall draped window at the end of the room. A
magnificent library. Ancient texts in leather-bound rows to the ceiling,
some of the works, in medieval Latin, on the national specialties,
mathematics and astronomy--Copernicus was there, among others--
at which their scholars had traditionally excelled. Always a crowd at
this party, the library's imposing gloom inducing serious, sometimes
elevated, conversation between the guests. And the fresh herring in
cream was exceptional. So transcendently good one might be mindful
of the country's right of access to the Baltic, up at Danzig.
The French contingent gathered at the embassy and departed in a
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phalanx of Buicks, led by the ambassador and his wife, followed by
LeBeau, the charge d'affaires, then Jourdain, joining Mercier in his
car, with a splendid Marek in his most sober and official blue suit.
Last in line, the naval and air attaches.
In the library, a glittering crowd: medals galore, the uniforms of at
least eight armies and six navies. Mercier studied the faces of the
women in the room, more than one of them finding such attention not
unwelcome, but Anna Szarbek was nowhere to be found. The Biddles
were there--he the American ambassador, the couple highly visible
at the heights of the Warsovian social set--as well as the formidable
Hungarian, Colonel de Vezenyi, doyen of the city's military attaches,
accompanied by his mistress, the stunning Polish film star known as
Karenka. Mercier spent a few minutes with them, de Vezenyi infamous for his insight into the private lives of the diplomatic community. "And he was, I'm told, in the closet for two hours, trembling in his
underwear."
Mercier next found himself in the company of the Rozens, Viktor
and Malka, the former a minor bureaucrat in the commercial section of the Soviet embassy. Communists were rare in Poland; the internal security was famously relentless in hunting them down, so no
workers' marches, no petitions crying out for justice in wherever it
was that week. For a view of the world from that particular angle,
Mercier had to chat with the Rozens, or other available comrades,
whenever chance offered the opportunity. But he didn't mind; he liked
the Rozens.
How not? They were almost unbearably charming. Viktor Rozen,
half stooped from some childhood malady in Odessa, looked up at his
fellow humans, giving the fools among them the impression that they
were somehow above him. His wife was irresistibly warm and maternal, with a smile that lingered just at the edge of a laugh. What a pair!
At these affairs, always side by side--he with a monk's fringe of gray
hair, she much the taller and heavier of the two--twinkly-eyed Jewish
intellectuals, always eager to hear about your life. GRU, people said,
the Russian military intelligence service, not the thuggish NKVD, not
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the gentle Rozens. Was Malka Rozen the chief spy of the family, or
was that Viktor? Among local diplomats, opinion was divided.
"Tell me, dear colonel, how has life been treating you?" Viktor
Rozen said, his German softened by a Yiddish lilt.
"Very well, thank you. And yourselves?"
"Could be better, but I can't complain. But we were having a little
dispute just now, Malka and I."
"You?"
Malka's smile grew broader. "Only a little one."
"Perhaps you can decide it for us. We were wondering whatever
became of von Sosnowski."
"In prison in Germany, I believe," Mercier said. Von Sosnowski,
the center of what became known as "the von Sosnowski affair," a
handsome aristocratic Polish cavalry officer living in Berlin, had
recruited four or five beautiful German women, all of noble heritage.
First as mistresses, stupefied with love for him, and then as agents, to
spy on their employer, the German General Staff, where they, impoverished by the Great War, served as clerks.
"He was," Viktor said. "He surely was in prison, for life, poor
soul, but I've heard he's been let out."
"Of a German prison?" Malka said. "Never."
"But a little bird told me he'd been traded, for a German woman
spying on the Poles, at the behest of the SD people--Heydrich, that
crowd."
Slowly, Mercier shook his head. "No, not that I've heard, anyhow."
"You see?" Rozen said to Malka. "The colonel is a great friend of
the local administration, surely they would have mentioned it. Too
good not to mention, no?"
"They don't tell me all that much, Herr Rozen." The seeming
ingenuousness of the probe made Mercier smile.
"No? So maybe they don't. But I heard von Sosnowski was here in
Warsaw, a broken man, his hair gone white in prison, drinking, living
in penury in a room somewhere."
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Mercier, about to respond, was distracted by a loud guffaw from a
nearby guest and looked over Malka's shoulder to discover the man at
Anna Szarbek's apartment, Maxim, in conversation with a gentleman
wearing a monocle and an official sash. At Maxim's side, Anna Szarbek, dressed pretty much as she'd been for the night at the Europejski,
looking up at Maxim, acknowledging his joke with a smile. A rather
tolerant smile, Mercier thought; or was it, perhaps, a forced smile?
The Rozens followed his eyes. "Friends of yours?" Viktor said.
"No, not really."
"That's Maxim Mostov," Viktor said, "the Russian emigre. He
writes for one of the local newspapers." A shadow crossed his face.
"So sad, how some people abandon us, some of the brightest." He
shook his head in sorrow.
"How does he come to be here?" Mercier said.
"Oh, he knows everybody, goes everywhere," Viktor said. "People
love to see their names in the newspapers."
"He writes gossip?"
"No, dear colonel, not quite. Feuilletons, observations on the
passing scene, an elevated form of gossip, perhaps. In the Soviet
Union, before he emigrated, he did much the same thing, I believe."
"So why leave?" Malka said. "He was a well-known journalist, in
Moscow."
"Not everybody wants to build socialism, my love," Viktor said,
half joking. Turning to Mercier, he said, "He was replaced, they're all
replaced, those who abandon us. It isn't an easy life, where we come
from: chaotic, dreadful in winter, at times disappointing--why not
admit it? But, colonel, better than what we had before. Do you see it
that way?"
&nbs
p; "More or less," Mercier said. "Every country has its difficult
side."
"So true, that's so true," Malka Rozen said, touching Mercier's
arm. "And we all must help each other, otherwise . . ."
"Oh, I suppose we can go it alone," Viktor said, "if we have to, but
friends are always welcome. That's just human nature."
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"Very welcome," Malka said. "It's in the Russian soul to appreciate friendship."
That's enough of that. Mercier finished his vodka. "I believe I may
have a little more of this," he said, preparing his escape.
Viktor nodded. Yes, yes, run away. "Call us sometime, dear
colonel. A home-cooked dinner makes for a nice change, in the diplomatic merry-go-round." He moved closer to Mercier and lowered his
voice. "We know what the world thinks of us, colonel, but, every now
and then, when trouble comes knocking at the door, we're good people to know. Yes?"
Mercier smiled, and bowed his head to indicate that he understood.
In the Buick, headed back to the embassy, Jourdain seemed distracted,
not his usual self. "Did you have the vodka," Mercier said, "or the
champagne?"
"Champagne. But I just held the glass in my hand. You?"
"The vodka. Maybe a little more than I should've."
"I saw you conspiring with the Rozens. Did they make advances?
Try to recruit you?"
"Yes, as always."
"They're incorrigible," Jourdain said fondly. "I expect they have a
monthly quota, like everyone else in that accursed country. That's the
way Moscow thinks-- x number of solicitations equals y number of
recruits. I know bachelors who swear by it."
"I don't think I'll change sides, Armand, not just yet."
"Were they after anything in particular?"
"They asked about von Sosnowski. Supposedly traded by the Germans and now back in Warsaw."
"That's good to know about, if it's true. The German propaganda
put his story about as lurid nonsense, sex and espionage, but that's not
the whole story. Sosnowski used the darkroom in the cellar of the Polish embassy to develop negatives of photographs of Wehrmacht doc-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 80
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uments. Then one day another Polish agent, this one secretly working
for the Germans, went to hang up his negatives--phony product--
and discovered the real thing: elements of the German battle plans
for France and Poland. Not comprehensive--memoranda, first drafts,
sketches. One of Sosnowski's girlfriends was in charge of burning the
wastepaper at the end of the day, but she photographed it for Sosnowski. The gorgeous Benita von something. She was beheaded, eventually, and so was her friend. Barbaric, the hooded executioner with
the axe, but I suppose not much worse than the guillotine. One of the
other women disappeared, probably right into the SD. As for Sosnowski, the Poles might well have traded to get him back."
"French battle plan?" Mercier said. "Did we see that?"
"I don't know; that was in 1934, before I was posted here, but we
might have. Still, three years old. General Staff plans change all the
time. It wouldn't be worth much now, certainly not worth annoying
the Poles."
They rode in silence for a time, then Mercier said, "Is anything
wrong, Armand?"
Jourdain looked at Mercier, not pleased that whatever it was
showed. "I've lost one of my people," he said.
"Bad luck," Mercier said.
"Can't be helped, it does happen, but it's always a shock. He went
to work one morning, then, pfft, gone."
"In Germany?"
"Here." Jourdain flicked his eyes toward Marek's back--he was
trusted, but not that trusted.
"Anything I can do, you'll let me know."
"I'll have to write a dispatch. Paris will be irritated--how much
I'm not sure, but they won't like it."
"Well, that makes two of us."
"Your little foray in the west? Shooting at German border
guards?"
"Bruner was incensed."
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Jourdain laughed. "Nothing quite so safe and warm as an office in
Paris."
"Yes, a lovely fall afternoon, a window looking out on the
Champ-de-Mars. ' Merde, look what Mercier's done!' " He smiled and
spread his hands; life was hopeless. "To hell with them, Armand."
Jourdain's face showed agreement. "I just feel bad about it. He
was a decent fellow, the real reptiles always seem to survive."
14 November, 8:22 a.m. In Glogau, in the SD office above the toy shop
on Heimerstrasse, one of the secretaries in Major Voss's office
answered the telephone, then passed the call immediately to Voss.
"Yes?"
The voice identified itself as an SS sergeant stationed at the passport kontrol at the Glogau railway station. "We have made a possible
identification, sir, of your person of interest."
"Better than the one last week? This is turning into a comedy."
"We hope so, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer. The subject's passport is
issued to one Edvard Uhl, U--H--L. He left on the eight-fourteen
express to Warsaw, and he fits the description provided by your
office."
"So did the last three, sergeant."
"We regret the errors, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer."
"Very well, let's hope you're right, this time."
Voss hung up. He shouted to one of his lieutenants; the man came
running into his office. "We have another one--half the men in Germany have bulbous noses. The name this time is Edvard Uhl, find out
immediately who he is, but first get somebody on the eight-fourteen
express to Warsaw."
The lieutenant looked at his watch, panic in his eyes.
Idiot. In the mock-gentle voice a frustrated parent might use on a
stupid child, Voss said, "Send a wireless telegraph message to Zoller,
in Leszno, and tell him to get on the train. The Poles take their time
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checking passports; they won't be leaving Leszno for thirty minutes.
And make very sure, lieutenant, that genius Zoller takes with him the
description we've issued. Would you do that for me, lieutenant? I
would so, appreciate, it, if, you . . . would!" Voss resumed his normal
growl. "And as for information on this man"--Voss looked at his
watch--"you have twenty minutes."
The lieutenant, palms sweating, ran out of the office. "Bar-gumf, "
he said, under his breath, the German version of a frog's croak.
He was back in eighteen minutes, having bullied clerks--Voss
could hear him shouting on the phone--in government bureaux from
Glogau to Berlin. The major looked up from a railway timetable
spread across his desk.
"Herr Edvard Uhl is a resident of Breslau," the lieutenant said. "I
have the address. He is employed by Adler Ironworks in the same city,
where he is the senior engineer on a tank design project for the Krupp
company. According to his employer, he is this morning at the office of
a subcontractor in Gleiwitz."
; "And the photograph?"
"On the way, Herr Sturmbannfuhrer, by motorcycle courier from
Breslau."
"Get that woman in here, immediately. Anything else?"
"Herr Uhl has received an exit visa, to visit South Africa. For himself only, not his family."
Voss nodded, and rubbed his hands. "A scenic country, lieutenant.
But he'll never see it."
15 November, 5:45 a.m. Standing amid a silent crowd of factory workers, Mercier rode the trolley to Praga for his meeting with the engineer
Uhl. It was snowing, not the massive snowfall of the Polish winter, but
a taste of the future--big, lazy flakes drifting through the gray light,
the street white in some places, wet and shiny in others. Would Uhl
show up for the meeting? Maybe not. He'd wobbled badly, the last
time out. So, probably not. Mercier put it to himself as a bet and
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decided he'd bet no. And then? Then nothing. Uhl would never be
betrayed to the Germans, not by him, not by anyone. Because if Uhl
was compromised, all he'd given them would be compromised as well,
not that the Germans could do much about it. Change the tank
design? The other possibility, that Uhl might have been arrested, was,
to Mercier's thinking, unlikely. He'd sent the promised postal card--
Hans was enjoying his visit to Warsaw, which meant all was well in
Germany.
Mercier stepped off the trolley car at the third stop in Praga,
walked past the burnt-sugar smell of the candy factory, and down the
narrow alley to the nameless bar. Particularly nameless that morning;
the lone drinkers lost in their shot glasses, the bartender bored with
the morning paper, one office worker in a shabby suit, untasted coffee
going cold in his cup. And, bet lost, Edvard Uhl, sitting at a table in the
far corner.
After they'd greeted one another, Mercier said, "And the train ride
yesterday, Herr Uhl, how was it? Packed with Gestapo men?"
"All was normal," Uhl said. "From Gleiwitz to Glogau, only a few
passengers. Then, on the express to Warsaw, a crowd, but nothing out
of the ordinary, just the usual people looking into the compartment to
see if there were any seats."
Mercier nodded: there, that's better. "So now, to work, Herr Uhl."
Uhl had brought the formula for the case-hardened steel to be
