Mission to Paris

by Alan Furst

  With the arrival of the wild boar, Stahl turned to chat with the director of the festival, who sat across from him, the German film producer Otto Raab. Stahl had never met him, but as Raab talked about himself Stahl realized that he knew this man, knew him from experience. Likely he’d started his artistic career in the provincial theatre, a local genius who had, driven by ambition, gone off to the great city – Berlin in this case – there to discover he was no genius at all, at best a worker bee, so that his passion to succeed soured and turned to bitter resentment. How did it happen that these people, many of them Jews, communists, sexual deviates, were set above him? They were snobs, arrogant and sure of their talent, this so-called elite, but they were no better than he was. They succeeded because they knew the right people, they hobnobbed, they worked their insidious magic and rose to the top, where they looked down their noses at the struggling Otto Raabs of the world.

  But with the Nazi ascent to power in 1933, the Otto Raabs of Germany perfectly understood what it meant for them. Now it was their turn. They joined the Nazi party, and success inevitably followed. Now look! A respected producer of films, wholesome films, German films, a powerful man snubbed no longer. Raab had weak, watery eyes, and in the way they fixed on Stahl as Raab recounted various triumphs, there was the purest hatred. Stahl was careful with him, gently encouraging, keeping condescension at bay. After he’d had all he could stand of Raab, he turned to the woman on his right, the highly acclaimed film actress Olga Orlova.

  Stahl knew something of Orlova, who had a complicated history. She was said to be a descendant of the Russian novelist Lermontov, had trained in the great Moscow Art Theatre with Stanislavsky, had fled with the White armies from the 1917 Bolshevik revolution, landed on her feet in Germany, become a film star, and a great favourite of that madly passionate film buff Adolf Hitler. Who made sure that photographs of the two of them together appeared in newspapers and magazines.

  Orlova was, like many actresses, not so much beautiful as striking, memorable, with plain, strong features, upswept dark hair parted to one side, and animated eyes. She may have been over forty but looked younger – smooth skin, a well-tended body in a lime-coloured evening gown that revealed the bare shoulders of an athlete. She wore a necklace and earrings of small emeralds and, as she talked, Stahl noticed she had slim, delicate hands. Her voice was low, and sensual in a way that Stahl couldn’t precisely define – she spoke intimately, but she was no coquette.

  She admired him, she said, she knew his films. How on earth had they managed to lure him to this incredibly boring event?

  ‘I’m living in Paris now, making a film for Paramount, and my studio thought it would be a good idea.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Orlova said. ‘There’s more to this business than the screen kiss.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘It’s certainly true for me. I started out in the theatre, acted my little heart out, Chekhov, Pushkin, Shakespeare in Russian. But the Bolsheviks put an end to that, so now I am in movies.’

  ‘And a celebrity.’

  ‘That I am. I work at it, and important people here seem to like what I do.’

  ‘Surely one very important person,’ Stahl said.

  Orlova’s smile was ever so slightly grim. ‘One is chosen, sometimes, it’s not up to you. But it’s not bad to be adored, and he is infinitely polite.’

  ‘To you.’

  ‘Yes, to me.’ She shrugged. ‘We have no intimate life, though the world is encouraged to think otherwise.’

  ‘And you don’t mind?’

  ‘Mind gossip? No, do you?’

  ‘Now and then, but it comes with the profession.’

  ‘And makes private life difficult. Still …’ For a moment, her eyes caught his in a certain way. ‘I find you, for example, quite interesting.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ Stahl said. ‘But for people like us, privacy is almost impossible.’

  ‘Almost,’ she said. ‘But not quite.’ She paused for a moment, then said, ‘Where are they keeping you?’

  ‘Here.’ He pointed upwards. ‘In the Bismarck Suite.’

  ‘Well, well, the Bismarck Suite. Then you’re just down the hall from me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve taken the Führer’s suite for tonight. I don’t believe he’s ever been there, but the hotel keeps it exclusively for him.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Just down the hall. The number one hundred is on the door.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘No reason to, but now you know. I’ll leave the door ajar.’

  From behind them, a waiter cleared his throat. Startled, Stahl and Orlova turned to face him. He was a wiry little man with oiled, slicked-back hair and a smug, almost triumphant smile on his face. ‘Excuse me, meine Frau, mein Herr, may I take your plates, please?’ The words were commonplace but the tone was just insinuating enough to let them know their conversation had been overheard.

  ‘By all means,’ Orlova said. Her voice was dismissive, and faintly irritated.

  The waiter took their plates, moving from Orlova’s right to Stahl’s. ‘It is a pleasure to serve such glamorous people,’ he said. The insinuation in his voice was now plainly evident. ‘My name is Rudi, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you, Rudi,’ Stahl said, turning back to face Orlova.

  The waiter bowed politely and said, ‘Some people are known to reward good service.’

  ‘We’ll remember that,’ Stahl said. ‘Now go away.’

  After another bow, the waiter, a slight redness to his cheeks, went off towards the kitchen.

  ‘Rude little bastard, isn’t he. How much of that do you think he overheard?’ Stahl said. He had a bad feeling in his chest.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Orlova said. ‘I do what I want. My private life is my own affair, and certain people know that very well.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you later.’

  ‘After I go upstairs, give me a half-hour.’

  Stahl looked to his left, meaning to resume conversation with Princess von Somebody, but Orlova put a hand on his arm. ‘By the way, a silly thing but I want to leave a little something for the maid. Do you happen to have a ten-reichsmark note?’

  ‘I do,’ Stahl said. ‘I’ll bring it with me.’

  When Stahl saw the waiters clearing space in the middle of the ballroom, and a small orchestra began to set up, he realized it was time to go. He took Princess von Somebody’s hand, bent towards it, touched her skin with his lips and said good evening. The princess made a disappointed little mouth and said, ‘Will you not stay for the dancing?’

  ‘Forgive me, your grace, but I’m very tired, and I must rise early and watch the movies.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Then good night, Herr Stahl, it was a pleasure to meet you.’

  Stahl realized she’d expected to spend the night with him, so wished her the most gracious good-evening he could manage. Next he looked for Orlova, who was nowhere to be seen, and then, needing a breath of fresh air, he walked through the lobby to the door of the hotel, stepped outside, and took a cigarette and a lighter from his side pocket. He was about to light his cigarette when he smelled smoke. Not woodsmoke from a fireplace, the other kind, where something is burning that shouldn’t be burning. He looked over at the doorman, a giant in a coat with epaulettes, who stood nearby, rubbing his hands to keep them warm – it was a chilly night, with a cutting little wind from the north. ‘Is something on fire?’ Stahl said.

  ‘No, sir,’ the doorman said.

  Stahl looked up the front of the hotel but saw nothing. The smell was getting stronger. For a few moments he waited, listening for sirens, but the night was quiet. Curiously quiet, there was no traffic on what was usually, even late at night, a busy street. ‘You’re sure?’ Stahl said to the doorman.

  ‘Yes, sir. I am quite sure. But when you have finished your cigarette, it would be better to remain in the hotel for the evening.’

  Why? But Stahl said h
is thank you and lit his cigarette.

  12.30 a.m. Stahl walked down the hallway, couldn’t find the Hitler suite, then went back the other way and found a door at the end which faced the corridor, a gold plate inscribed 100 screwed to the polished oak surface. And yes, it was slightly ajar. He knocked lightly, then entered. He was in a foyer, through an open door he could see a bedroom, and a pair of legs with bare feet. Olga Orlova was stretched out on the bed, her gown hiked up above her knees. She rose to a sitting position and smiled at him. ‘My lover at last,’ she said, eyes amused.

  ‘I’m here, my darling.’

  ‘Yes, I heard your carriage arrive. Do you have my reichsmark note?’

  Stahl handed it to her. She opened a small address book on the night table and spoke the bill’s serial number aloud, consulting her book to make sure the numbers matched. ‘Really,’ she said, ‘I don’t see why we have to do this. I’ve surely seen you enough to know who you are.’ She handed the note back to him and said, ‘For next time.’

  Stahl began to fish the Swiss francs out of his tuxedo pockets, then unbuckled his cummerbund, retrieved the rest, and set the stacks on the satin coverlet. ‘A lot of paper,’ he said.

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand francs.’

  ‘That’s the right number, I’ll count it later. The telephones are turned off by the way, so we don’t have to play the love scene.’

  ‘They listen to Hitler’s phones?’

  She shrugged. ‘Who knows what they do. I’m sure they’re watching your room, so you’d better stay for an hour while we make passionate love.’

  Stahl found a chair in the corner and sat down.

  Orlova gathered up the money and put it in a large handbag with a shoulder strap. ‘My spy bag,’ she said. She poked around inside, then drew out a sheaf of very thin paper with tiny, spidery writing from top to bottom and edge to edge and walked it over to Stahl. ‘Here’s what your friends are expecting. There’s quite a lot of it this time, Orlova has been terribly social these last few weeks.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Stahl said.

  ‘If I knew how to do it properly, I would spit,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t teach girls to do that, not in Czarist Russia. Maybe they do now, in their USSR.’

  ‘Why spit?’

  ‘If you read what I brought you, and I don’t think you’re supposed to, you’d know why. These monsters are bad enough in public, but you ought to get a taste of them in private. You’d spit too.’ She lay back down on the bed and put her hands over her eyes. ‘I am tired, Herr Stahl, Fredric. For years.’ She was quiet for a time, Stahl thought she might be going to sleep, but she sat up suddenly and said, ‘Christ! The goddamn hotel’s on fire!’

  ‘No, I made sure it isn’t, but something is.’

  Orlova’s eyes were wide. ‘I know that smell, I know that smell from 1917, that’s a burning building.’

  ‘Yes, I think it is.’

  After a moment she lay back on the bed again.

  ‘I wonder,’ Stahl said, ‘will there be talk, about our being together up here? If they’re watching my room they know I’m not in there.’

  Orlova turned on her side to face him. ‘Talk? Not from the hotel people. For one thing, you could be anywhere in the hotel – the staircase in the Adlon is famous for night-time visits, you don’t have to use the elevator. And even if they suspected something, when it comes to Adolf and his circle they keep their traps well shut. As for the morons who are running the festival, all they know is that I arranged to sit next to you. So what? Maybe I want to go to Hollywood.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve thought about it.’

  ‘They like foreign stars out there – you could be the next Marlene Dietrich. Anyhow, in time you may decide to try it.’

  Orlova rolled onto her back and rubbed her eyes. ‘Not much time left, Fredric, based on what’s in your pocket.’

  ‘Do they speak openly, in front of you?’

  ‘No, but they like to talk to each other in what they think is a sort of code; winks, and pokes in the ribs, and too bad we can’t let you in on the big secrets.’ She was silent for a moment, then said, ‘Now I’m going to take a nap, you should wait for an hour before you leave.’

  3.40 a.m. Stahl had found it hard to go to sleep, had read a third of his Simenon novel, decided to have a brandy sent up to his suite but thought better of it, not wanting to call attention to himself. Finally, sometime after four in the morning, he drifted off.

  Then, something brought him sharply awake.

  What could have happened? A noise? A nightmare? A noise, for now he heard it again: shattering glass. Something of considerable size, plate glass, like a shop window. And there it was again, somewhere down in the street. He rolled off the bed, went to the window, and moved the drapery just enough so that he could see out. He thought he heard shouting, more than one voice, then, across the street from the hotel, a shadow went past, running at full speed. He caught only a glimpse but, with eyes fixed on the street, he saw a group of men, five or six of them, more trotting than running. They disappeared in the same direction the shadow had taken. Hunting him? He stood at the window for some time but saw nothing else, only a glow in the eastern sky. And the smell of burning was now very strong; acrid, unpleasant.

  The young woman wore her shining blonde hair rolled in plaits above her ears – she was a peasant after all and, in the movies, that was the way pretty peasant girls wore their hair. As they also could be counted on to wear a dirndl – a tightly fitted bodice and full skirt, this costume in baby blue and white, so pure was she, toiling her way up the side of an alp. She climbed with the aid of a stick and with her other hand held a small brass urn to her breast. Poor Hans was in there – his ashes anyhow – cremated after being shot by a Jewish gangster in the evil city where he never ever should have gone, in the mistaken belief that he had lost her love. The violins worked away and, as she at last reached the crest, the sun just now rising above the neighbouring mountain, here came, as Stahl had anticipated, a long blast on an alpine horn. Triumph! True, there were tears in the girl’s eyes, but there was also a fierce determination, hope for tomorrow: in the new Germany, this sort of tragedy must never happen again!

  The film ended. Stahl was sitting in the middle row of a positively baroque movie theatre in downtown Berlin, a theatre with plaster angels and sconces and loges and plush seats, where he’d been taken to judge the best of the mountain movies. Not really his decision, of course. Emhof, seated next to him, said, ‘I think I needn’t tell you that you have just seen the festival’s finest work.’ Stahl thought he detected, in Emhof’s eyes, a certain moisture. Had he been moved to tears?

  ‘So,’ Stahl said, ‘the winner is Das Berg von Hedwig?’ Hedwig’s mountain.

  ‘If you agree,’ Emhof said.

  ‘Well, I do agree. An excellent production, good acting, fine music, and produced and directed by Otto Raab.’

  ‘Yes, of course Herr Goebbels’s deputy will make the announcement, as Raab is the director of the festival.’

  ‘That shouldn’t matter, when such quality …’ Stahl left it at that.

  Emhof nodded. Stahl hoped he could now escape for the rest of the day.

  He’d seen the newspapers that morning, which had reported that some German citizens, angered at the murder of the diplomat vom Rath, shot dead by a Jew in Paris, had attacked Jewish synagogues, setting them on fire, and breaking the windows of Jewish shops. This action, the papers said, was regrettable, but certainly understandable. The police and the Gestapo, concerned about further Jewish violence, worried about conspiracies, had arrested between twenty and thirty thousand prominent Jews. Local Berliners, the reports went on, had taken to calling the event Kristallnacht, after the crystalline appearance of shattered glass on the streets of German towns and cities.

  Standing up to leave the movie theatre, Stahl counted the hours he had to endure before leaving this place. The Grosser
Mercedes was waiting in front of the theatre and as Stahl was driven through the city he could see – and could hear – the streetsweepers shovelling up the broken glass. By the time he reached the Adlon it was mid-afternoon and all he wanted to do was escape: have a couple of brandies and fall asleep. He ordered the brandies and collapsed into a chair. Then the telephone rang.

  He answered by saying, ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is the front desk. There’s someone here to see you, Herr Stahl, could you be so kind as to come downstairs?’

  Somehow it didn’t sound like a front-desk voice. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Oh, please forgive the inconvenience, but the gentleman does not give his name.’

  Stahl hesitated, then said, ‘Very well, I’ll be down in a minute.’

  He put on his jacket and straightened his tie. As he went out the door, he could see the back of a man waiting for the elevator, who turned around when Stahl’s door clicked shut. It was the waiter from the banquet, wearing street clothes, his mouth twisted into a triumphant smirk. ‘Remember me?’ he said. ‘Bet you thought you’d never see me again.’

  Stahl wondered how he’d managed to make a telephone call from ‘the front desk’, then appear at the elevator – he must have, Stahl thought, used an empty room on the same floor. ‘Yes, I remember you, your name is Rudi. Is there something you want?’

  ‘Can’t you guess? I asked for a small gratuity last night but you dismissed me, didn’t you. Like a dog. “Go away,” you said. But maybe you’ll change your mind, Herr Stahl, maybe you’ll decide I ought to have something after all.’

  The waiter had moved towards Stahl, was now close enough so that Stahl could smell beer on his breath. Taking a step back, Stahl said, ‘Would you like it now?’

  Rudi seemed mollified. ‘Well, I would like it, better late than never, as they say. But now you’ve insulted me, so it won’t be a small gratuity, more like ten thousand reichsmarks.’

  Ambitious blackmail, Stahl thought, $5,000. ‘How much?’ he said.