The Spies of Warsaw: A Novel

by Alan Furst

  The German articles had, he thought, a companion piece, which he’d read earlier that year, a book by the French general Chauvineau called L’Invasion estelle encore possible? Is invasion still possible? With a foreword by none other than Marshal Pétain. Back in Warsaw, in a file cabinet, was a hand copy of Pétain’s words, which Mercier had thought worth saving:

  If the entire theatre of operations is obstructed, there is no means on earth that can break the insurmountable barrier formed on the ground by automatic arms associated with barbed-wire entanglements.

  And, same drawer, same folder, General Chauvineau himself:

  By placing two million men with the proper number of machine guns and pillboxes along the 250-mile stretch through which the German armies must pass to enter France, we shall be able to hold them up for three years.

  Thus the answer to the question Invasion, is it still possible?—was No.

  Two-ten in the morning: he turned the light out and pulled the covers up to his eyes. Outside, the steady wind rattled his window and sighed at the corner of the house.

  Christmas Eve. Fernand and Lisette had gone off to Grignan in the truck to spend Christmas Day with their son and daughter-in-law and grandchildren, so Mercier had the house to himself. Then, at seven in the evening, his Uncle Hércule, who lived on a Mercier property some ten miles south of his own, picked him up in the family Citroën, shiny and new, and took him home for the Christmas celebration. His father’s only surviving brother, and easily his least favorite, Hércule was a thin, fretful man who’d become wealthy by speculating in South American railroad stocks, turned violently political, and now absorbed himself in writing right-wing pamphlets and letters to newspapers, often on the subject of Bolshevik designs to corrupt public waterworks. Still, holidays were holidays, and assorted Merciers must be gathered under one roof, attend midnight mass, then sit down together to réveillon, the traditional Christmas meal of black and white sausages and goose stuffed with chestnuts.

  A long, long evening for Mercier. Fourteen people in the parlor, various aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews, his uncle raving about the government, his widowed aunt, Albertine’s mother, undertaking recollections of Mercier and Annemarie’s years together, with mournful looks in his direction, two nephews in a tense conversation—one couldn’t actually argue on Christmas Eve—about some silly American movie; another aunt had been to Greece and found it “filthy.” Mercier was asked about Warsaw and did the best he could, but it was a relief when they left, in an assortment of automobiles, at eleven-fifteen, headed for the church in the village of Boutillon.

  At the door of the church, Mercier knelt and crossed himself, then the family dutifully spent a few minutes in front of the Mercier family crypt, a flat marble slab with an inscription carved in the wall above it.

  ICI REPOSENT LES DÉPOUILLES MORTELLES

  De Messires:

  François Mercier de Boutillon Décédé à Montélimar Le 29 Juin 1847

  Made La Chevalier Sa Femme née de Mauronville Décédé à Boutillon le 21 Février 1853

  Albert Mercier de Boutillon Décédé à Boutillon Le 8 Août 1868

  Seigneurs de Boutillon et Autres Places

  Transférées en ce Lieu Le 15 Août 1868

  Sous les Auspices de Mr Combert Maire

  et de Mr Grenier Curé de Boutillon

  Au frais de Général Édouard Mercier de Boutillon

  Légion D’Honneur Domicilié à Boutillon

  The crypt had been installed by Mercier’s nineteenth-century ancestor Édouard, who’d paid for it—duly noted in stone, along with his decoration and the names of the mayor and the priest—moved a few mortal remains there in 1868, and then himself died in battle at the city of Metz, during the 1870 war with Prussia. And that was, Mercier thought, the problem with a family crypt, his family anyhow—the male ancestors fell in foreign fields and there, in vast cemeteries or graves for the unknown, they remained.

  For Mercier, it was the ceremony of the mass that eased his soul: the sweetish smoke trailing from the censer, the ringing of the bell, the Latin incantations of the priest. In Warsaw, he attended early mass, at a small church near the apartment, once or twice a month, confessing to his vocational sins—duplicity, for example—in the oblique forms provided by Catholic protocol. He’d grown up an untroubled believer, but the war had put an end to that. What God could permit such misery and slaughter? But, in time, he had found consolation in a God beyond understanding and prayed for those he’d lost, for those he loved, and for an end to evil in the world.

  As the service reached its conclusion, Mercier found himself suddenly aware of the congregation, the crowded rows of men and women, their heads raised toward the priest at the altar. And then, once again, he felt, as he had during his lunch at the Brasserie Heininger with General de Beauvilliers, a certain dark apprehension, a sense of vulnerability. This was midnight mass, not the manic gaiety of a Parisian lunch, but it was the same shadow. Was it, he wondered, brought on by the General Staff journals he’d been reading? If you took them seriously, they doomed these people to another war. But, he thought, he mustn’t let his imagination run away with him. Conflict between nations was eternal, inevitable, and this one, between France and Germany, might burn itself out in the endless warfare of politics: in the struggle between radicals and conservatives, in the brutal economics of armament, in the carnival of treaties and alliances.

  Mercier looked at his watch; it was Christmas. Soon enough the new year, 1938, and perhaps, he thought, a better year than this.

  27 December. Mercier arrived early at the Montélimar railway station, anxiously watched the windows as the carriages rolled to a halt, then waved as Gabrielle stepped down onto the platform. How lovely she was, not her mother’s looks, more a touch of his, the determined, pale Mercier forehead, dark hair, gray-green eyes. He was relieved to see that she was alone, not that he didn’t like his son-in-law, a correspondent for the Havas news agency in Denmark, he did—but now he would have her all to himself.

  As the truck rumbled toward Boutillon, she told him that she’d stayed overnight at the apartment, having taken the express from Copenhagen, through Germany, to the Gare du Nord. A trip ruined by what she called “that hideous Nazi theatre,” SS men and their dogs, swastikas draped everywhere. “One grows weary of it,” she said. “In the newspapers, on the radio, everywhere.”

  “A national illness,” he said. “We’ll have to wait it out.”

  “I’m afraid of them, the way they are now.”

  “You and half the world, my love.”

  “Perhaps we should have done something about it. Paul certainly thinks so.”

  They came upon a flock of goats in the road, driven along by a young girl with a switch. Mercier stopped the truck as the girl herded the goats to one side. As he drove slowly past, she held the lead goat by the scruff of the neck. “Looking backward, yes,” he said, as the truck gained speed, “but all we can do now is wait. And prepare for war.”

  “And you’re in charge of that,” she said.

  Mercier laughed. “I’m in charge of a desk.”

  “Still,” she said, “the Germans on the train were pleasant enough.”

  “No doubt. That’s the worst part—they pretend not to notice. It’s all that ‘Still, sprach durch die Blume.’ ”

  “Which means?”

  “ ‘Hush, speak through a flower.’ Don’t say anything about the government unless you praise it.”

  Gabrielle made a sound of disgust.

  Enough of that, Mercier thought. “Can you stay through the new year?”

  “Alas, I can’t. I travel the last day of December; I’ll see the new year in at the apartment. But I don’t care, Papa, I wanted to see you, and I have vacation for the holidays.”

  Lisette had roasted a capon for dinner and Mercier found a Château Latour in the cellar, a 1923, which turned out—one never knew—to be perfect. They took the last of it into the parlor, where Mercier built an oak
wood fire, using grapevine prunings for kindling. The dogs sat patiently, watching him as he worked, then lay on their sides in front of the fireplace and went to sleep.

  “I’ve been wondering,” Gabrielle said.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you seeing anyone, in Warsaw?”

  “No, dear. Not really.”

  “You should, you know. It’s not good for you to be alone.”

  “It’s not so easy, Gabrielle, after a certain age.”

  “I would imagine, but still . . . you’ve surely met somebody, that you liked.”

  “I have, but she’s taken.”

  “Married?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Well then, perhaps you should pursue her.”

  “Oh, I have, in a way.”

  Gabrielle looked dubious. “Really? Because, you know, if you had—well, many women would find you hard to resist.”

  “Mmm. I suspect you are biased, Gabrielle, love, but you’re kind to say that.”

  “I’m not being kind, Papa. It’s true.”

  “So then,” he said. He took a sip of wine, then rose and added a log to the fire. “Any new paintings? At the national museum?” Gabrielle was the curator for western Europe, outside Scandinavia.

  She shook her head at the change of subject and made a what a difficult man face. “Oh, all right, I’ll leave you alone,” she said. Then, “As for new paintings, there’s too much to buy, that’s my sad news. We’re approached constantly by dealers who represent Jews. So, it’s a buyer’s market. You wouldn’t believe what’s become available.”

  Gabrielle went on. A wealthy Viennese, forced to sell his kitchenware company, had managed to smuggle a wonderful Flemish master, a de Hooch, into Copenhagen, and now . . .

  Mercier was attentive—the time with his daughter was not to be wasted—but, deep within, he was very angry. It doesn’t go away. You twisted and turned, spoke of this or that, but then there it was, waiting for you.

  In time, they talked about Béatrice, his older daughter in Cairo. “How she loves it!” Gabrielle said. “You’ll see, I brought along some of her letters. Her students are eager to learn, and Maurice works at the archaeological sites, the tombs, the buried villages. It would be perfect, she says, but she only hopes they can stay there. Because of the political situation, in Egypt. . . .”

  Gabrielle left on the thirty-first. Mercier had to spend the New Year celebration chez Uncle Hércule. Keeping to tradition, the collected Mercier de Boutillons went out into the garden at midnight, in drizzling rain, to bang pots and pans in honor of the new year. Then, on the third of January, he took the train back to Paris and returned to Warsaw the following day, to find the city white and frozen.

  On the fifth, his first day at the embassy, he found two cables awaiting him. The first, from Colonel Bruner, was very terse, little more than an acknowledgment of his report on the Wehrmacht tank maneuvers at Schramberg, with faint praise to be read between the lines. The second cable, from General de Beauvilliers, was rather more generous, particularly on the subject of two of the bureau’s agents who had recorded radio traffic during the exercise. The general cited, specifically, one instance—“Q-24, a ravine up ahead of you, about six hundred feet”—where the pilot of the Fieseler Storch worked by radio with the tanks below. The French General Staff had little interest in this concept—air-to-ground communication—though de Beauvilliers believed it would be crucial in future warfare. “The marshal”—he meant Pétain—“and his clique think only of naval blockade and static defense.”

  Mercier was flattered to be so taken into the general’s confidence, but, as he reached the end of the cable, found that such flattery would have its price.

  Of course you will recall our interest in the Wehrmacht General Staff, specifically the section I.N. 6, and, should an opportunity present itself, we expect you will take full advantage of it, by any means necessary, in order to advance our knowledge of their thinking.

  But, what if an opportunity did not present itself? Clearly, the general assumed he would know what to do about that.

  At the intelligence meeting on the seventh, Jourdain began with his usual summary of recent political developments. And there was, as usual, no good news. Late in December, King Carol of Roumania had appointed the fascist poet Octavian Goga to head the government as virtual dictator. Anti-Semitic measures began immediately, and the Czechs had reinforced border units at Sighet, where refugees were trying to get out of the country.

  In Vienna, the trial of twenty-seven Austrian Nazis, accused of antigovernment activities, was now under way. German diplomats had tried to stop it, which led to a speech by the Austrian chancellor Schuschnigg, saying in effect that Austria wished to retain its independence as a nation. “He is holding firm,” Jourdain said. “But we’ll see how long that lasts.” In Spain, Republican forces had taken the city of Teruel, but fascist forces were expected to counterattack, as soon as frontline units could be resupplied. In the USSR, the purges continued; longtime Bolsheviks arrested, interrogated, and shot. There was to be a new public trial, of Bukharin, Rykov, and Yagoda, the former head of the NKVD. “I expect they’ll admit to their guilt, on the witness stand,” Jourdain said dryly, and added that their own Jean-Paul Sartre had recommended suppression of public statements about the trial, since that might discourage the French proletariat. “Certainly discourages the Russians,” the naval attaché said.

  “And next, you’ll recall Hitler’s statement in December that Germany would never rejoin the League of Nations. However, Germany and Poland have reaffirmed their commitment to protect the rights of Poles and Germans living in each other’s countries. Meanwhile, the League will be holding a conference in Belgrade, on the twentieth of this month, on the protection of ethnic minority rights in all European states, and on the progress of legal claims. It’s an important conference—no laughing, gentlemen—the ambassador is invited, the chargé d’affaires will attend.”

  So, Mercier thought, legal claims. That meant the lawyers would be there, and that meant Anna Szarbek would be there.

  Did he dare? The memory of Gabrielle, urging him on to pursuit, said he should. When the meeting ended, he had a look at his calendar—the twentieth fell on a Saturday, the League people would have a weekend in Belgrade, then begin talking on Monday. He walked from the chancery over to the public part of the embassy and climbed to the third floor, where the ambassador had installed a water cooler, just outside Madame Dupin’s office. Mercier always took a cup of water when he happened to find himself there, not caring so very much for water, but liking, despite his forty-six years, the bubble that floated to the top and made a noise.

  He liked also, that morning, the fact that Madame Dupin never closed her door; her office was open to the world. “Jean-François? Come and say hello!”

  First, in the gravest and most observed of French traditions: what did you do on the holidays? She’d been to Switzerland, she said, at a ski lodge. Cheese fondue! Villagers in costume! Folk dancing! And, Mercier thought, his attentive smile firmly in place, God knows what else. When his turn came, he dutifully reported on his visit to Boutillon.

  And then, attacked.

  “I’m told there’s a League of Nations conference in Belgrade, in two weeks.”

  Madame Dupin shuffled through some papers, then said, “Yes, there is, a conference on legal rights, and ethnic minorities. Of interest to you?” She seemed skeptical.

  “Perhaps. I understand the chargé is going.”

  This time she rummaged in her out box. Along with her duties as deputy director of protocol, Madame Dupin also managed embassy travel arrangements. “Here he is. Taking the night express on Friday—it only runs twice a week.” She looked up, slightly puzzled at his question, then not. “Oh, of course! Now I see, Jean-François! You are, well, more than interested, aren’t you.” Her eyes glittered with conspiracy.

  “I’d suppose your friend Anna will be there,” he said, smiling.

  �
��I presume she will be, as a League lawyer. Perhaps I should ask her.”

  “No, please don’t. I just thought . . .”

  “Shall I book your ticket?”

  “I’ll do it. The embassy shouldn’t pay.”

  “Such an honorable fellow, our Jean-François.” Her sly grin meant: you devil!

  9 January. Slowly, the social wheels of diplomatic Warsaw began to grind once more. A cocktail party at the Dutch embassy, at six, to meet the new commercial attaché, Mynheer de Vries. Mercier pinned on his medals and trudged downstairs, where Marek and the Biook awaited him. They crept along the icy streets, high banks of shoveled snow on either side, a rather dispirited Mercier smoking his Mewa in the backseat. He’d booked a first-class room on the night express to Belgrade, expensive enough, and likely pointless. Anna Szarbek had made a decision that evening in the carriage, and now he was going to make a great fool of himself. Why had he allowed Gabrielle to provoke him into this? There were other women in Warsaw, among the restless wives of the diplomatic community, and the social set that fished in the same waters. Merde, he thought. I’m too old for this.

  The cocktail party wasn’t as grim as he’d feared. He avoided the Dutch gin, held a glass of champagne in his hand, and sampled the smoked salmon and pickled herring. Touring the room, he looked for Anna Szarbek, but she wasn’t there, nor was Maxim. He did find Colonel Vyborg, standing alone, and he and the Polish intelligence officer exchanged news of their holidays. When Mercier mentioned his discoveries about German tank formations in the Wehrmacht journals, Vyborg just frowned and shook his head. “A bad dream,” he said. “They write books and articles about what they intend to do, but nobody seems to notice, or care.”