The Spies of Warsaw ns-10

by Alan Furst

  Then, on the same page, news that the Anschluss, joining Austria to Germany, had been approved in a plebiscite by Austrian voters. A triumph-nearly all the Austrians had voted, ninety-nine to one in favor. Now there was a victory that deserved the word rousing! Just below that, a correspondent reporting from the Spanish civil war; the city of Vinaroz had been taken by Franco’s forces, isolating the government-held city of Castile from Catalonia. Another victory for fascist Europe. Mercier turned the page. A grisly murder, a body found in a trunk. And the soccer team had lost again. Followed by a page of obituaries. Mercier threw the newspaper on the floor.

  He lay there, smoked, stared at the ceiling. He had no desire to read, and sleep was a long way off. On the other side of the wall, a man and a woman in the adjacent room began to argue, in a language Mercier couldn’t identify. They kept it quiet, secretive, almost a whisper, but the voices were charged with anger, or desperation, and neither one would give in. When it didn’t stop, he got up, went to the window, and raised the shade. Across the square, the outdoor terrasse of the cafe was busy-a warm night, spring in the air, the usual couples with drinks, a few customers alone at tables, eating a late dinner. Then the barman walked over to a large radio set on a shelf and began fiddling with the dials. Mercier couldn’t hear anything, but most of the patrons rose from their tables and gathered in front of the radio. He rolled the shade back down, undid the straps on his briefcase, and made sure of its contents.

  20 April.

  Mercier strolled up Opava street at 5:10 P.M., but Halbach was nowhere to be seen. Keeping the house in sight he walked to the corner, then started back the other way. He felt much too noticeable, so turned into a cross street where he discovered a tram stop. Was this how Halbach returned from work? He waited for ten minutes, then walked back out onto Opava, and there he was, almost at the house. Mercier moved as quickly as he could and caught up to him just as he reached the door. “Herr Halbach?”

  Frightened, Halbach spun around and faced him, ready to fight or run. “What is it? What do you want?”

  “May I speak with you a moment?”

  “Why? Is it about the bill?”

  “No, sir, not that at all.”

  Halbach calmed down. Mercier was clearly alone; the secret police came always in pairs, and late at night. “Then what? Who are you?”

  “Is there somewhere we can speak? Privately? I have important things to tell you.”

  “You’re not German.”

  “No, I’m from Basel-a French Swiss.”

  “Swiss?” Now he was puzzled.

  “Can we go inside?”

  “Yes, all right. What’s this about?”

  “Inside? Please?”

  Downstairs, the family was at dinner. Mercier could smell garlic. Halbach called out “Good evening,” in Polish, then climbed the stairs and opened a door just off the landing. “In here,” he said. “Just leave the door open.”

  “Of course,” Mercier said.

  A small room, meagerly furnished and painted a hideous green. On one wall, a clothes tree held a shirt and a pair of trousers; on the other, a narrow cot covered by a blanket, and a nightstand with four books on top. At the foot of the cot, a single rickety chair completed the furnishings. The window looked out on the plaster wall of the adjacent building, so the room lay in permanent twilight. Halbach put his briefcase down and sat on the edge of the cot, while Mercier took the chair. When he was settled, Halbach opened the drawer in the nightstand, then gave him a meaningful look, saying, “Just keep your hands where I can see them.”

  Mercier complied immediately, resting his hands atop the briefcase held on his knees. Was there a pistol in the drawer? Likely there was. “I understand,” he said. “I understand completely.”

  For a moment, Halbach stared at him. He was, Mercier thought, perhaps the homeliest man he’d ever seen: a long narrow face, with pitted skin, and small protruding ears emphasized by a Prussian haircut-gray hair cut close on the sides and one inch high on top. His Hitler-style mustache was also gray, his neck a thin stem-circled by a collar a size too large-his restless eyes suspicious and mean. “Well?” he said. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Lombard. I represent a chemical company in Basel. My card.”

  Mercier drew a packet of cards from his pocket and handed one of them to Halbach, who said, “Solvex-Duroche?”

  “Solvents for the metals industry.”

  Halbach studied the card, then put it on the nightstand. “What would you want with me?” Suspicion was slowly giving way to curiosity. “I’m a teacher.”

  “But not always. Or, rather, that is your vocation. It is your political history that brings me here.”

  Halbach’s hand moved toward the drawer, Mercier feared he was about to be shot. “Please, no violence,” he said softly. “I’m here to make an offer, nothing more than that, and if you’re not interested I’ll go away and that will be the end of it.”

  “You said politics … meaning?”

  “Your resistance to the present government in Berlin.”

  “You know who I am,” Halbach said, an accusation.

  “Yes, I do know that.”

  “So, you’re no chemical salesman, Herr Lombard, are you.”

  “Actually, I am, but that’s no part of our business today.”

  “Then who sent you?”

  “That I can’t tell you. Suffice to say, powerful people, but not your enemies.”

  Halbach waited for more, then said, “How did you find me?”

  “As I said, powerful people. Who know things. And, I feel I should point out, it wasn’t all that difficult to find you.”

  “In other words, spies.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not the first I’ve encountered, Herr Lombard. And no doubt working for the Swiss government.”

  “Oh, we never say such things out loud, Herr Halbach. And, in the end, it doesn’t matter.”

  “To me it does.” He had suffered for his politics, he wasn’t about to compromise his ideals.

  “Then let me say this much-a neutral government is not a disinterested government, and, as I said before, in this instance on your side.”

  Now Halbach was intrigued-he’d spent enough time with Mercier to sense he needn’t be afraid of him, and felt the first flush of pride that “powerful people” were interested in him. Which, of course, they should be, despite his present misery.

  Now Mercier advanced. “Tell me, Herr Halbach, this life you live now, as a fugitive, how long do you expect it to last?”

  “For as long as it does.”

  “Months?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Years?”

  “Perhaps.” A shadow settled on Halbach’s face. He knew it couldn’t be years.

  “You read the newspapers, you’re aware of Hitler’s intentions in Czechoslovakia-what’s going on in the Sudetenland.”

  “Casus belli.” Halbach flipped the tactic away with his hand, his voice rich with contempt.

  “True, a reason for war, and perfectly transparent to those who understand what’s going on. Still, Hitler may well send his armies here. What then? Where will you go?”

  “To a cellar somewhere.”

  “For months? Or days?”

  Halbach would not give him the satisfaction of an answer, but the answer hung unspoken in the air.

  “You asked why I was here, Herr Halbach. I’m here to offer you sanctuary.”

  “Sanctuary,” Halbach said. The word had its effect.

  “That’s correct. The people I represent want you to continue your resistance, but you cannot do so in Czechoslovakia. The Gestapo will find you, today or tomorrow, and the result for you will be very unpleasant. Very, very unpleasant. With the best of luck, it’s only a matter of time.”

  “What is this sanctuary?”

  “Money, and a new nationality.”

  “How much money?”

  “Five hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

&nb
sp; “That’s a fortune!”

  Mercier’s brief nod meant, of course it is, but not for us.

  “Five hundred thousand, you said?”

  “I did. And a Swiss passport. The passport of a Swiss citizen, not the papers of a foreign resident.”

  “For nothing more than writing a few pamphlets?”

  “No, there is more.”

  Silence in the little room-quiet enough to hear the family eating dinner below them. Halbach lowered his voice. “And what would that be, Herr Lombard?”

  “A visit to an old friend, a request-a request accompanied by the same offer I’ve made to you, so you will not go empty-handed, a few days’ work on his part, a successful result, and then, for both of you, new lives. Wealthy lives. Safe lives.”

  Now Halbach saw the trick. “All this you offer would be in the future, naturally, and conditional. Just around the corner, just up the road.”

  “No, sir, it doesn’t work like that. Simply agree, and I will hand you a hundred and fifty thousand Swiss francs.”

  “Now? This minute?” Halbach stared at the briefcase.

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know I won’t accept the money and disappear?”

  “Because then you will have stolen it, Herr Halbach. Stolen it from us.” Again, silence. Mercier waited, the soul of patience; he could almost see Halbach’s mind working, back and forth. Finally Mercier said, “What will it be, sir, shall I be on my way?”

  Halbach’s voice was barely audible. “No,” he said.

  “Then we are in agreement?”

  Halbach nodded. He’d begun to grasp the very sudden turn his life had taken, and he didn’t like it, his expression sour and resigned, but, really, what choice did he have?

  “Please understand,” Mercier said, his hands now holding the sides of the briefcase, ready to hand it over, “that your actions will be directed against the Hitler regime, not against the German people, not against your homeland. We know you would never agree to harm your country, misguided though it might be.”

  Halbach didn’t answer, but Mercier sensed that he’d accepted the distinction-this wasn’t treason, this was resistance. From the foot of the stairs, a woman’s voice. “Herr Halbach? Will you be having your dinner?”

  “Not tonight, thank you,” Halbach called out.

  Mercier handed him the briefcase. It was heavy and full: thirty packets, bound with rubber bands, of fifty hundred-franc notes. Halbach unbuckled the straps and opened the flap, took out one packet, counted twenty, riffled the rest, and put it back. When he looked up at Mercier his face had changed; the reality of the banknotes had struck home.

  “And three hundred and fifty thousand more, Herr Halbach, when the work is completed.”

  “In cash?”

  “There’s a better way, a bank transfer, but I’ll explain that in time.”

  Halbach again looked in the briefcase. No, he wasn’t dreaming. “What do I have to do, for all this? Kill somebody?”

  “A train ride to Berlin. A conversation.”

  Halbach stared, opened his mouth, finally said, “But …”

  Mercier was sympathetic. “I know. I know, it’s risky, but not foolish. With a Swiss passport, hiding in a small hotel, you’ll be reasonably safe. And I’ll be there with you. Of course, danger is always part of this business. For me to come here today is dangerous, but here I am.”

  “I’m a wanted criminal, in Germany.”

  “You won’t be in Berlin for more than a week, and, except for arrival and departure, you will be visible for only one evening. We want you to contact a man who used the alias ‘Kohler,’ an old comrade of yours, from the Black Front, now serving in a section of the General Staff, and make the same offer to him that I’ve made to you.”

  Mercier had worked this sentence out and memorized it. The question he didn’t want to ask was: Do you know Kohler? Because a simple “Who?” would have ended the operation.

  “Hans Kohler,” Halbach said, his voice touched with nostalgia. After a moment, working it out, he said, “Of course. Now I see what you’re after.”

  Casually, Mercier said, “I expect he serves under his true name.”

  “Yes, Elter. Johannes Elter. He is a sergeant in the Wehrmacht. Luckily for him, Strasser ordered that every man in the Front use a nom de guerre.”

  Not so lucky. It had left Kohler vulnerable to just the sort of approach that Halbach was going to make. But, Mercier thought, there was plenty of time for that, now was not the moment.

  “When will this meeting take place?” Halbach asked. He rebuckled the briefcase and placed it on the floor beside him.

  “Soon. Political events are moving quickly; we don’t want to get caught up in them. We leave tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow! My classes, at the school-”

  “Class is canceled. The Herr Professor is indisposed.”

  “I have a friend in Tesin, Herr Lombard, a friend that’s made a great difference to me, the way I’ve had to live here. I would like to say goodby.”

  Mercier’s voice was as gentle as he could manage. “I am sorry, Herr Halbach, but that won’t be possible. If she’s been a confidante, she’ll understand, and a postal card from you, in Switzerland, will let her know you’ve reached safety.” He rose and offered his hand-Halbach’s palm was cold and damp. “Enough for tonight,” Mercier said. “We’ll meet tomorrow, ten-fifteen at the railway station. Try to get some rest, if you can, it will be a busy day.”

  “Tomorrow? We go into Germany?”

  “Oh no, not at all. We go to Prague, then back east and into Poland. An easy crossing.”

  21 April. Sturmbannfuhrer Voss’s friend Willi-fake dueling scar on his cheek, von now leading his surname-was well-liked at 103 Wilhelmstrasse, the SD’s central office in Berlin. Properly submissive to his superiors, genial to his underlings, quite a good fellow, and sure to rise, when the time was right. And when would that be, exactly? War would do it, but Hitler was such a little tease when it came to war, showing his drawers one day, then giggling and running away the next. Austria he had-the plebiscite on the Anschluss had been a stroke of genius. Czechoslovakia he would have, though that would require force of arms; the Czechs were a stubborn, stiff-necked crowd, blind to their best interests, and they rather liked having their own nation. And those arms were still in production; all across Germany, the factory lights burned until dawn. Would it be this year? Probably not, maybe the following spring. More likely 1940. And some very sage gentlemen were saying 1941.

  But war was only one way, there had to be others. For instance, a triumph. Some daring operation run against the French or the English. Willi, however, did not run operations, he worked in the SD administration. Certainly important, if you knew how these things worked, though not the sort of position that produced a stunning success. Still, there had to be some way, for a smart chap like Willi to find a path to the top.

  For example, a visit to the urinals in the bathroom on the third floor. Obersturmbannfuhrer Gluck, August Voss’s superior, the former Berlin lawyer, regularly answered the call of nature around eleven in the morning, so Willi had observed. And so, that morning, he too heard the call. Gluck, when Willi arrived, was just buttoning his fly. Willi said good morning and addressed the porcelain wall. Gluck washed his hands, dried them, and began to comb his hair. When Willi was done, he stood at the sink next to Gluck and said, “Fine speech, the Fuhrer gave last night.”

  Gluck’s nod was brusque. He set the comb carefully on his part, then drew it across his head.

  “You are Sturmbannfuhrer Voss’s superior, are you not, sir?” Willi said.

  “I am. What of it?”

  “Oh, nothing. I was just wondering … if something’s gone wrong with him.”

  “What would be wrong?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you have a moment, sometime, when we could talk?”

  “Now is a good time. Why not come along to my office?”

  Gluck had a most pleasant office,
quite large, with a view out over the Wilhelmstrasse, the government neighborhood of the city. Down below, Grosser Mercedes limousines with swastika flags above the headlights, generals strolling with admirals, motorcycle couriers rushing off with crucial dossiers, a military beehive. Gluck sat formally at his desk. He had, Willi could see by the photograph next to the telephone, a very attractive wife and two handsome sons, both in SS uniform. Gluck waited patiently, then said, “Something I should hear about?”

  “I believe you should.” Willi was just a bit hesitant, not happy about what needed to be said. “He’s an old friend, Voss is, from the early days of the party. And, I always thought, the best sort of officer. Keen, you know. Quite the terrier.”

  “And?”

  “A few weeks ago he invited me and another friend to go up to Warsaw. A change of scene, see the night life, bother the girls. Just a holiday away from family life, a chance to be naughty. When you work hard, it can be just the thing.”

  “I suppose it can.” Though not for someone like me.

  “So there we were, having a good time. But then he drags us off to some factory district. Where we wait around, while I’m trying to figure out what’s going on. He’d been drinking, more than usual I’d say, and you couldn’t reason with him; better to just go along. Then he sees some fellow in a French uniform come out of a factory-apparently he was waiting for him, because he runs off and, and attacks him. Pulls a riding crop from under his coat and beats him on the face.”

  Gluck kept his composure. Pressed his lips together and seemed thoughtful, but that was all. “He did mention something about this, I don’t recall when it was. He’d lost a suspect, which is surely regrettable, but not the end of the world. However, Voss took it badly, personally, saw it as-how to say-a vendetta.”

  “I couldn’t believe my eyes, when it happened. Then, after we returned home, I wondered if he didn’t perhaps have some difficulty in his private life, something that could be resolved, informally, with your help.”