The Polish Officer ns-3

by Alan Furst

  Even a publisher of books—Parthenon Press. There, see the little drawing with the broken columns? That’s the Parthenon. They were proud, at the little suite of offices at 39 rue de Rome, to issue an extraordinarily wide and diverse list of books. The poetry of Fedyakov, Vainshtok, Sygelbohm, and Lezhev. The plays of Yushin and Var. And all sorts of novels, all sorts. October Wheat, which told of the nobility of peasant life in the Ukraine. The Sea, a saga which, through the lives of a family of fisherfolk in the eastern Crimea, suggested the ebb and flow of both oceanic and human tides. The Baronsky Pearls—a noble family loses its money and survives on love; Letter from Smolensk— experimental fiction about the machines in a tractor factory—no human character appears; Natasha—a girl of the streets rises to fame and fortune. There was Private Chamber, in English, by Henry Thomas; The Schoolmistress of Lausanne, about the need for discipline at a school for wealthy young women, by Thomas Henry; and Slender Birch, not, as you might imagine, about the romance of the Russian steppe, by Martin Payne. These novels in English had found an appreciative audience first among British and American soldiers after the Great War, then among tourists from those nations, pleased to find, during their trip to Paris, books in their own language about their own personal interests and hobbies.

  The huge pair of ancient, ironbound doors at 39 rue de Rome was firmly locked, but de Milja knocked and refused to go away when nothing happened. Finally, in the first watery light of morning, a panel in the concierge’s station by the doorway slid open and a large eye peered out. Clearly he wasn’t the German army—just a man with his tie pulled down and sleepless eyes who’d been walking all night—and the door creaked open. The concierge, not a day under eighty, a Lebel rifle held in his trembling hands, said, “We’re closed. What do you want here?”

  “Please tell Madame Beilis that a friend has come to call.”

  “What friend?”

  “A friend from the church of Saint-Etienne-du-Mont, tell her.”

  “A priest? You?”

  “No,” de Milja said. “Just an old friend.”

  14 June 1940. Dawn. It rained. But then, it would. Not a human soul to be seen in Paris. Out at the Porte d’Auteuil, untended cattle had broken through the fence at the stockyard pens and were wandering about the empty streets mooing and looking for something to eat.

  At the northern edge of the city, the sound of a German motorcycle, engine perfectly tuned, approached from the suburbs. A young Wehrmacht soldier sped across the place Voltaire, downshifted, revved the engine a little—here I am, girls—put the gear back where it belonged, and disappeared, in a rising whine, up the rue Grenoble.

  From the northeast, from the direction of Belgium and Luxembourg and Germany, a series of canvas-covered trucks drove through the Porte de la Villette. One broke off from the file and moved slowly down the rue de Flandre, headed toward the railroad stations: the Gare de l’Est and the Gare du Nord and the Gare Saint-Lazare. The truck stopped every few blocks and a single German soldier jumped from the back. Like all the others, the one on the rue de Rome wore white gloves and a crossed white belt. A traffic policeman. When the armored cars and the troop transports rolled past an hour later, he waved them on.

  At seven-thirty in the morning, the German army occupied the Hôtel Crillon and set up an office for local administration in the lobby. Two officers showed up at the military complex just abandoned by Major Kercheval and his colleagues at Invalides and demanded the return of German battle flags captured in 1918. France had lost a war but it was still France. The battle flags, an officer explained, had been mislaid. Of course the gentlemen were more than welcome to look for them.

  The Germans hung a swastika flag from the Eiffel Tower, and one from the Arc de Triomphe.

  Over on the rue de Rome, Genya Beilis pushed a sheer curtain aside and watched the Wehrmacht traffic policeman at the corner. She lit a Lucky Strike and blew long plumes of smoke from her nostrils. “What happens now?” she asked.

  De Milja came and stood by her, gently pulled the fabric of the curtain from her fingers and let it fall closed. “The fighting changes,” he said. “And people hide. Hide in themselves, or hide from the war in enemy beds, or hide in the mountains. Sooner or later, they hide in the sewers. We learn, under occupation, that there’s more rat in us than we knew.”

  “They’ll get rid of us, won’t they,” she said.

  “Us?”

  “All the—what? The little bits and pieces that always seem to wash up in Paris: Russians, Jews, the Spaniards on the run from Franco, Poles and whatnot. Castaways. People who dance naked in ateliers and wave scarfs, people who paste feathers and seashells on a board.”

  “That ‘us,’” de Milja said. “The French, the real French, they’ll be safe if they mind their manners. But the others, better for them to disappear.”

  She left the window, settled herself in a chair at the dining-room table. It was never clear where the office stopped and the residence began. The mahogany table was piled high with stacks of a slim volume in a pale-blue dustjacket—The Golden Shell. “You aren’t supposed to be here, are you?” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Monsieur Pavel, your, ah, predecessor. One saw him for just a moment. Here or there, in a museum or a big brasserie, someplace public.”

  “That’s the recommended way.”

  “But you don’t care.”

  “I care,” he said. He started to qualify that, then shrugged.

  She got up and went into a pantry off the dining room and started to make coffee, cigarette hanging from her lips. Her blouse was a very flat red and she wore little gold-hoop earrings. In profile, she spooned out coffee, liberally, then fiddled with a nickel-plated coffee urn. Smoke rose around her face and hung in drifts below the brass ceiling lamp. He couldn’t stop looking at her; the texture of her hair didn’t go with the color, he thought, so black it should have been coarse. But it hung loose and soft and moved as she did things with her hands.

  He couldn’t stop looking at her. He had been in the apartment since the previous day, had slept in a spare room, had wanted her so badly it hurt. Anyone would, he thought; man, woman, or tree. It wasn’t that she was beautiful. More than that. Dark, and supple, with fingers that lingered on everything she touched for just a moment longer than they should. He wanted to carry her to the bed, put his hands in the waistbands of everything she was wearing and pull down. But then, at the same time, he was afraid to touch her.

  On a wall above a desk hung a portrait of the publisher Max Beilis, her father, a small, handsome man with a sneer and angry, brilliant eyes. She would, of course, be his single weakness—anything she wanted.

  She turned on the radio, let it warm up and tuned in the BBC. He moved closer, could smell a hint of perfume in the cigarette smoke. People who dance naked in ateliers, she’d said. Part of her world—the held breath of the audience, the brush of bare feet on cold floorboards. Her Parisian heart could not, of course, be shocked by such things.

  On the BBC, modern music, atonal and discordant. Music for the fall of a city. It faded and returned, disappeared into the static, then came in strong. Not jammed, though, not yet—jamming came in rising and falling waves, they’d find that out soon enough. When the announcer came on, Genya leaned forward in concentration, lit a new cigarette, ran her hair back behind one ear.

  “And now the news . . .”

  The French government had left Tours and had set up shop in Bordeaux. Reynaud had stated that “France can continue the struggle only if American intervention reverses the situation by making Allied victory certain.” In the USA, the chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee suggested that, since it was hopeless for the British to fight on alone, they should surrender to Germany. Fighting continued sporadically in France, the Maginot Line was now being abandoned. German troops had crossed the Marne. German forces in Norway this, in Denmark that, in Belgium and Holland the other thing. This morning, German troops had entered P
aris and occupied the city.

  When it was over, another symphony.

  16 July 1940. Banque Nationale de Commerce, Orléans. 11:30 a.m.

  Was he French?

  Monsieur LeBlanc had a second, covert, look at the man waiting behind the railing that separated bank officers from the cashiers’ windows. He was rather clever about people—who was who and what was what, as they said. Now this one had been, in his day, quite the fellow. An athlete or a soldier—a certain pride in the carriage of the shoulders indicated that. But lately, perhaps things weren’t going so well. Inexpensive glasses, hat held in both hands—an unconscious gesture of submission—scuffed shoes. A drinker? No, some wine, like all the world, but no more than his share. Death of a loved one? A strong possibility. By now, most of the refugees who’d taken the road south had found their way home, but many had died—the delicate ones, some of the strong as well.

  Not French.

  Monsieur LeBlanc didn’t know how he knew that, but he did. The set of the mouth or the angle of the head, a subtle gesture, revealed the foreigner, the stranger. Could he be a German? Hah! What an idea! No German would wait on the pleasure of Monsieur LeBlanc, he’d be served now, ahead of everyone else, and rightly so. Yes, you had to admire that. A shame about the war, a swastika flew over the Lycée where he’d gone to school, and German officers filled the better restaurants. On the other hand, one didn’t say so out loud but this might not turn out to be the worst possible thing for France. Hard work, discipline—the German virtues, coupled with the traditional French flair. A triumphant combination for both countries, Monsieur LeBlanc thought, in the New Europe.

  “Monsieur.” He gestured toward a chair by the side of his desk.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur,” said the man.

  Not French.

  “And you are Monsieur—?”

  “Lezhev. Boris Lezhev.”

  “Very well, and you will require?”

  “A safe-deposit box, Monsieur.”

  “You’ve moved recently to Orléans?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Was that all? He waited. Evidently that was all. “And what size did you have in mind? We have three.”

  “The least thick, would be best.”

  Ignoramus. He meant the least large, but used the word gros, which meant thick, or heavy. Oh well, what could one do. He was tired of this shabby Russian. He reached in a drawer and took out a long sheet of yellow paper. He dipped his pen in the inkwell and began taking down Lezhev’s particulars; birth and parentage and police card number and residence and work permits and all the rest of it. When he was done, he scratched his initials on the page and went off to retrieve the list of available boxes.

  At the assistant cashier’s office, a shock awaited him. This was a culturally interesting city but not a major one—Jeanne d’Arc was long gone from sleepy Orléans, now a regional business center for the farming community. But when Monsieur LeBlanc obtained the list of available boxes, there was exactly one that remained unrented. A number of local residents evidently expected good fortune to be coming their way.

  As Lezhev signed forms and accepted the keys, Monsieur LeBlanc took a discreet look at his watch. Only a few minutes until noon. Excellent. What was today? Wednesday. At Tante Marie that meant, uh, blanquette de veau and baby carrots.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” said the Russian.

  “You are very welcome, we’re pleased to have you, Monsieur, as our customer.”

  Barbarian.

  And Mildred Green wasn’t much better—Monsieur LeBlanc, had he ever encountered her, likely would have clapped his hat on his head and run the other way.

  She was squat, homely, and Texan, with sparse hair, a pursed mouth, and a short temper. Her redeeming qualities were, on the other hand, only narrowly known—to American soldiers wounded in the Great War, when she’d been an army nurse, and to the American military attaché in France, for whom she now worked as secretary, administrative assistant, and bull terrier.

  The military attaché’s office had moved down to Vichy on 5 July, panting hot on the tail of the mobile French government, which had pulled stakes in Bordeaux on the first of July and moved to Vichy on the river Allier, a stuffy old spa town with copious hotels and private houses to absorb the bureaucracy and those privileged souls allowed to kneel at its feet.

  Life had not been easy for Mildred Green. The people running France now loathed the British and hated their American cousins. Better Germans, better anything, than Brits or Yanks. The assignment of housing space in Vichy rather reflected that point of view, so the villa would take, at least, some fixing up. Water bubbled from the pipes, the windows had last been opened in the heat wave of 1904, mice lived in one closet, squirrels in another, and God only knew what in the third because they could hear it in there but nobody could open the door.

  Mildred Green did not lose her temper, staunch amid the hammering and banging, fits of artistic temperament and huge bills courteously presented for no known service or product. She had worked in France since 1937, she knew what to expect, how to deal with it, and how to maintain her own equilibrium in the process—some of the time, anyhow. She knew, for example, that all laborers stopped work around ten in the morning for casse-croûte, a piece of bread and some red wine to keep them going until lunchtime.

  Thus she was surprised, sitting at her typewriter, when a man carrying a toolbox and wearing bleu de travail knocked at the door and asked if he could work on the wiring in her ceiling. She said yes, but had no intention of leaving the office—fearing not so much for the codebooks as for the typewriters. The electrician made a grand show of it, tapped on the wall with a screwdriver handle, then moved to her desk and handed her an envelope. Inside she could feel the outline of a key.

  “I’m not an electrician,” the man said in French. “I’m a Polish army officer and I need to get this letter to the Polish government-in-exile in London.”

  Mildred Green did not react, simply tapped a corner of the envelope thoughtfully against her desk. She knew that the French counterespionage services were aggressive, and fully versed in the uses of agents provocateurs. “I’m not sure I can help you,” she said in correct, one-word-at-a-time French.

  “Please,” he said. “Please help me. Help us.”

  She took a breath, let it out, face without expression. “Can’t promise you a thing, sir. I will speak to somebody, a decision will be made. If this isn’t right, in the garbage it goes. That’s the best I can do for you.”

  “Read it,” he said. “It just says that they should contact me, and tells them how to go about it, through a safe-deposit box in Orléans. It can’t hurt you to give that information to the Poles in London. On the other hand if you give it to the French I’m probably finished.”

  Mildred Green had a mean Texas eye, which now bored into the false electrician in bleu de travail. This was, perhaps, monkey business, but likely not. What the Pole didn’t know was that when she returned home that night, the hotel desk would have a fistful of messages for her, all of them delivered quietly. From Jews, intellectuals, all sorts of people on the run from Hitler. A few left names, others left instructions—for ads in personal columns, for notes hidden in abandoned workshops, for contact through third parties. Every single one of them was urgent, sometimes desperate. Europe had festered for a long time, now the wound was open and running, and suddenly it seemed as if everybody in the neighborhood wanted her to clean the damn thing up.

  “We’ll just have to see,” she said. “Can’t promise anything.” She said that for whatever little ears might be listening. Her real response was to slide the envelope into her big leather shoulder bag—a gesture her lost Pole immediately understood. He inclined his head to thank her—almost a bow—then saluted. Then vanished.

  The nights of July were especially soft that Paris summer. All cars, taxis, and buses had been requisitioned by the Germans, and with curfew at 11:00 p.m., windows masked by blackout curtains, and the streetlamps painte
d over, the city glowed a deep, luminous blue, like Hollywood moonlight, while the steps of a lone policeman echoed for blocks in the empty streets. Nightingales returned and sang in the shrubbery, and the nighttime breeze carried great clouds of scent from the flowers in the parks. Paris, like a princess in a folk tale, found itself ancient, enchanted, and chained.

  Hidden away on a side street in the seventh arrondissement—the richest, and most aloof, of all Parisian neighborhoods—the Brasserie Heininger was an oasis of life on these silent evenings. Started by competing beer breweries at the turn of the century, the brasseries of Paris had never abandoned their fin-de-siècle glitter. At Heininger, a white marble staircase climbed to a room of red-plush banquettes, mirrors trimmed in gold, painted cupids, and lamps lowered to a soft glow. Waiters with muttonchop whiskers ran across the carpet carrying silver trays of langouste with mayonnaise, sausage grilled black, and whole poached salmon in golden aspic. The brasserie spirit was refined madness; you opened your heart, you laughed and shouted and told your best secrets—tonight was the last night on earth and here was the best place to spend it.

  And if the Heininger cuisine was rich and aromatic, the history of the place was even more so. In 1937, as storm clouds gathered over Europe, the Bulgarian headwaiter Omaraeff had been shot to death in the ladies’ room by an NKVD assassin while two accomplices raked the mirrored walls with tommy-gun fire. A single mirror had survived the evening, its one bullet hole a monument, the table beneath it— number fourteen, seating ten—becoming almost immediately the favored venue of the restaurant’s preferred clientele. Lady Angela Hope, later exposed in Le Matin as an operative of the British Secret Intelligence Service, was said to have recruited the agent known as Curate— a Russian foreign correspondent—at that table. Ginger Pudakis, wife of the Chicago meat baron, had made it her evening headquarters, with Winnie and Dicky Beale, the American stove-pipe millionaires, the Polish Countess K——— and her deerhound, and the mysterious LaReine Haric-Overt. Fum, the beloved clown of the Cirque Dujardin was often seen there, with the tenor Mario Thoeni, the impresario Adelstein, and the dissolute British captain-of-the-night Roddy Fitzware. What times were had at table fourteen! Astonishing revelations, brilliant seductions, lost fortunes, found pleasures.