by Jon Cleary
“Where?” Then she saw the tall elegant figure in uniform sitting next to Helmut von Albern. She felt suddenly afraid, stared at the Abwehr officer and was still staring at him when he looked towards her, half-rose from his chair and bowed stiffly. She recovered, gave him a star’s smile and dropped her eyes to her plate. “Yes, what is he doing here?”
“Do you know him?”
“I’ve met him a couple of times at parties.” She was watching Gaffrin and Helmut: they were deep in conversation, the conversation of intimates.
“Just act naturally.”
“God, you sound just like Karl Braun!”
“Pardon?” said Lindwall on her left. He was a squarely built man with a square face and a thick military moustache; he had a slow Alabama drawl which made his German worse to listen to than Carmody’s. He would have felt more at home covering events leading up to the War between the States.
“We were just wondering why Colonel von Gaffrin should be out here for lunch. Is he keeping an eye on some of you correspondents?” She had learned enough not to call a foreign correspondent a reporter to his face; newspapers, too, had their star ladders.
“The Gestapo do enough of that. What do you know about Colonel von Gaffrin?”
She wondered if she had said too much; but decided to go further. “Only that he’s in the Secret Service.”
Lindwall glanced past her at Carmody. “Did Sean tell you that? Well, I guess it’s no secret. That’s one of the unsubtle things about the Abwehr—it’s really not such a secret service. We foreign newspapermen all seem to know who runs it.”
“Colonel von Gaffrin is very senior?”
“Number two, I’d guess. Or pretty close to it.”
“Then why is he out here?”
“Maybe he just likes actresses. There are so many pretty ones out here and I believe they are very popular with some of the top men.”
“You’ve been listening to gossip, Mr. Lindwall.”
He smiled. “It’s a handicap you lovely ladies have to bear, Miss O’Dea.”
“You’re just an old Southern gentleman, Colonel Lindwall.” She gave him the accent she had used in Mansion in Memphis.
“I wish I were,” he said soberly. “Life in Alabama would be pleasanter than here in Germany, even for the nigras.”
She knew nothing about the nigras in Alabama; it was enough being half-Jewish. At least there were no concentration camps in Alabama, none that she knew of.
When lunch was finished she rose and went across to Helmut and Colonel von Gaffrin. She was testing the high dive platform again; but this time she would not dive in with her mouth open. She was aware of Carmody staring after her, was sure he was silently shouting a warning to her to be careful, but she did not look back at him.
“Colonel von Gaffrin—” She gave him her hand, something she had learned since coming to Berlin, and he clicked his heels, bowed and kissed it. The gesture always pleased her; it was so much better than the Hollywood kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t know you and Helmut were such friends.”
“I served under General von Albern—I have known Helmut since he was a boy.”
Helmut said nothing, just stood rather stiffly and very quietly, as if telling her he would rather not have had his conversation with Gaffrin interrupted.
“You have never been out here before,” Cathleen said. “Are you to be a technical adviser on some picture?”
“Something like that.” He gave a thin, practised smile,
“A cavalry picture?” She knew he still posed as a cavalry officer, though Carmody had told her most people knew his true posting.
The smile broadened, was warmer. “We should make something like those films about the US cavalry. We have no Indians to attack, unfortunately.”
Helmut said quietly, “One would have thought there were plenty of other targets.”
“Ah, but we are talking about the past, Helmut, when we used horses. You are a photographer. Which would you rather photograph attacking Fort Apache—horses or tanks?”
There is something between these two, Cathleen thought; there was a tension that was almost visible. She waited for Helmut to give Gaffrin an answer, but he just shrugged.
“Did you ever play in a cavalry film, Fräulein O’Dea?”
“No, Herr Colonel. Hollywood never saw me as the old-fashioned type.”
“This is an old-fashioned film, is it not?”
“Yes. But Lola Montez was years ahead of her time. I think she may have even been at home in Germany today.”
“You must tell me more about her some time. But I must go—”
He bowed, kissed her hand again, said goodbye to Helmut and went striding away across the sound stage, looking handsome and theatrical enough to have been one of the studio’s stars. Willy Heffer, running to fat these days, no longer the matinée idol he had once been, was one who was glad to see him go. There is nothing worse for the professional than to be outshone by an amateur.
“So you’re friends with the Abwehr?” said Cathleen, diving off the high board into what she hoped would be deep water.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Helmut, keeping his voice low as a hint for her to do the same. “He is just a friend of the family. You have spies on the brain.”
“Maybe you’re right. But you’re not a foreigner.”
“What makes you think things are easy for all Germans? I have seen a dozen Jews disappear from this studio since I first came here.” His tone softened, he put a hand on her arm: the first time he had ever touched her. It was not something she would have expected from him, someone from an aristocratic family. She was used to being pawed, but this was a gentle, warning touch. “Cathleen, I assure you—the Colonel was not out here to spy on anyone, least of all you. He came to see me and I invited him to the luncheon.”
“What did you do when they took the Jews away?” The water might get deeper.
“Nothing. I wasn’t proud of doing nothing, but there was nothing one could do.”
“That sounds a bit mixed up.”
“Everything is mixed up.”
She dived deeper: “Helmut, did you leave me a note telling me to be careful, that the Abwehr was interested in me?”
The luncheon group was breaking up, the correspondents getting ready for the drive back to Berlin, smart, superior phrases already forming under their hats. It had been a mistake inviting this particular lot and Cathleen, her mind only half on them as she smiled goodbyes, wondered who had blundered. She was sure Dr. Goebbels would have chosen better.
Helmut waited till they were alone again. “Why should I do that? Am I your guardian angel?”
“You should have said, ‘Am I my sister’s keeper?’ We’re brother and sister in this trade, Helmut, we should be looking after each other. From what I’ve heard, all of us in the arts—”
“The arts? There hasn’t been any art in films for years.”
“You know what I mean. Entertainment—movies, theatre, music, the opera, books. Nobody knows when he or she is going to put a foot wrong.”
“You’re always likely to do that, Cathleen,” he said almost kindly and abruptly walked away from her. She remarked that he had not answered her question.
“Are you working this afternoon?” Carmody stood beside her.
She came up out of water that had proved shallower than she had hoped. She blinked, as if clearing her eyes of water, and looked at him. “What? No, I’m not working. They’re all Willy’s scenes this afternoon.”
“Can I ride back with you?”
She gave him her hand and a big warm smile. He was reliable, he answered questions when put to him. “Do you think Helmut might be working for the Abwehr?”
“Darl, you’re becoming paranoic.” It was a fashionable word with correspondents, it was just the description needed for Hitler and his actions.
Well, that’s a direct enough answer, she thought; and immediately resented it. “You mean you think I’ve got a persecution compl
ex. Well, so would you have if you were in my position—”
“Darl, I’m sorry—” He would hate to be in her position, looking for his mother in a country like this. He had left home and come to the other side of the world, but he loved Ida, his mother, as much as Cathleen must love hers. He just doubted that he would ever be able to explain that to her. He doubted very much that he would be able to explain it in so many words to his mother. He was one of those Australians who became inarticulate when it came to sentiment. “Let’s go home.”
“That would be a good idea.” But she was thinking of another home, not the apartment on Uhlandstrasse.
Driving back in the studio car, with the studio driver up front and no glass partition to cut him off, they said very little to each other. They passed a long army convoy heading east, but they just looked at each other and made no comment. Carmody knew there had been a lot of troop movement in the past week, but he had not been able to keep up with all of it.
Once in her apartment there was a moment’s hesitation between them, then he took her in his arms. She was glad of their comfort; but she hesitated another moment before she gave him her lips. She had been kissing men for as long as she could remember and now all at once she was afraid of what it might mean.
His kiss wasn’t fierce, but he took his time about it. Then he let her go. “Your heart’s not in it.”
She stared at him, then suddenly she grabbed him and kissed him almost ferociously, threatening to swallow him: it was the sort of kiss she gave in bed. When she let him go he put his hand up to the back of his neck and it came away streaked with blood.
“Oh God!” She looked at her nails, saw the blood under them.
He grinned. “Well, the old ewe never did that to me.”
Suddenly she loved him; though was not yet in love. “When this is all over—”
“What?”
“Nothing.” When what was all over? The search for her mother might never be over. “Take your shirt off and come into the bathroom while I put some antiseptic on that.”
In the bathroom, when he had taken off his shirt, she was surprised at the muscles in his arms and shoulders. In the mirrored walls he saw her looking at him. “I got those shoulders from my dad. And working in the sheds. Shearing builds your muscles but breaks your back. That’s why I gave the game away. I always wanted to see the world, anyway.”
She looked at him in the big mirror, shaking her head. “How did you get here?”
“It’s been a long road,” he said, looking at himself and her, wondering how much further there was to go. “A lot of roads, actually.”
He had been born on the road, in a tent outside Wilcannia in western New South Wales. A whole atlas of roads had followed: the droving tracks of eastern Australia, the highways across America, Fifth Avenue, the road out of Portugal up into Spain, the Extremadura Road into Madrid, the Brenner Pass and the road that led to Vienna and back to Prague, and now the Unter den Linden, maybe the end of the road.
“Are you tired?”
He knew what she meant. “No, I’m too young for that. Maybe in another ten years or so. When I’m as old as Joe Begley or Oliver Burberry.”
“Do you think they are tired?” She dabbed at the scratches with cottonwool, was pleased when he didn’t flinch at the bite of the antiseptic.
“Not tired, maybe. Disillusioned.”
“Are you disillusioned?” All at once she wanted him not to be.
“Not yet. But it’s happening. I’d never read much history till I came to Europe. I’d always thought of Europeans as being truly civilized, much more than we Aussies. But the skulduggery that goes on here—” He smiled at her in the mirror. “I guess you have to be civilized to get up to what they do. Back home we just carve up each other, bosses and unions. Here they carve up nations.”
She gazed at him in the mirror, looking at herself as well as him: a pair of innocents. She bent and kissed his back between the shoulder-blades; she suddenly wanted to take him to bed. Then she straightened and went quickly out of the bathroom, calling back to him to get them both a drink. He sat on the stool in the bathroom a few moments, staring at himself, seeing the ghost of her there beside him and the look that had been on her face before she had bent and kissed his back. Then he smiled at himself, not smugly but with the expression of a man who was learning about women. Who was, in other words, becoming civilized.
He put on his shirt and tie, went out into the living room and made her a martini and poured himself a beer. He stayed another half-hour, but she remained out of his reach and he didn’t pursue her. Each of them knew a corner had been turned in their relationship; there was no going back, but neither was there any rushing ahead. They enjoyed each other in the mirrored walls and left it at that for the moment.
He told her about his visit to the Hotel Ernst. “The cove I saw, the night clerk, I’m sure he’s an informer for the Gestapo.”
She spilled some of her drink. “They’ll trace you!”
“Maybe. But it’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you. You can bet they have someone on the day staff who’s in their pay. He’d have told them about you going there.”
She shook her head. “I wore a wig and glasses. It was a pretty lousy disguise, but I think it was enough. It was a cold day and I was rugged up in a thick coat.”
“They’d have still spotted you for an American.”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. I spoke German—I pretended I had a bad cold, so they wouldn’t pick my accent—” She was pleased when he nodded reluctant admiration. “I’m an actress—it’s one thing I know how to do—”
“I just wish you’d be careful.”
“I could say the same to you. If the Gestapo pick you up—”
“They’re not going to throw me into any concentration camp—”
“They wouldn’t dare do that to me, not after bringing me over for the picture—”
“No, probably not. But if they traced you to your mother, they might make it even tougher for her, wherever she is.”
“I wonder—” She looked pensively into her drink. “I wonder what would happen if I came out in the open—I could have given that press conference today out at the studio something that would have made them sit up—Dr. Goebbels wouldn’t want that sort of publicity for a picture he’s trying to sell on the world market—”
“It might work—and it might not. I don’t know whether it’s worth the risk—these bloody Nazis are so unpredictable. Goebbels might want your mother released, if—”
“If what?” She had picked up his momentary hesitation.
He had almost said, if she’s still alive. He recovered adeptly: he was becoming an actor. “If Himmler said no, where would that leave you? He and Goebbels can’t stand each other. He might deny the Gestapo knew anything about your mother. You can’t play these blokes against each other, darl. It’s too dangerous.”
She saw his point, realized he knew more about the skulduggery amongst the top Nazis than she ever would. When it came time for him to leave to go to his office to file his day’s copy, she kissed him goodbye at the door, a sisterly kiss.
He grinned as her hand pressed against his chest, keeping him at a distance. “If my editor wasn’t hanging on the phone—”
She smiled, liking him immensely. “I have another late call tomorrow. Come back and take me to dinner.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll go to the Sportspalast, it’s the last night of the six-day bike races. There are some Aussies and Yanks racing.”
“Sean, I’m really not in the mood—”
Her hand was still on his chest; he put his own over it. “Darl, I know how you feel, but I think it’s better if you don’t mope around. Or do you want to come back here after dinner and we’ll go to bed?”
She was surprised at his directness, it was so unlike his approach up till now; it was the sort of approach one got in Hollywood. Her hand stiffened and she pushed him out the door. “We’ll go to the bike race
s.”
He was grinning when he got out into the street. Going against the grain of his pocket, he caught a taxi across to the Potsdamerplatz; he would have enjoyed the long walk thinking about his love, but there were a thousand words to be written, none of them about love. He paid off the driver, surprising himself more than the man with his tip, and, whistling, went into the agency building and up to the World Press office.
He opened the outer door and Olga Luxemburg said, “These two gentlemen wish to see you, Herr Carmody.”
He didn’t need the note of fear in her voice to tell him who they were.
II
It was too warm for them to be wearing the black leather coat that had become almost the obligatory uniform for them. They held their hats in their hands, but they were the sort of hats he would have expected them to be wearing. Their suits, too, were as he expected, buttoned up like serge safes holding secrets. He was surprised to see that they looked more puritanical than brutal.
“Good afternoon, Herr Carmody.” The one who spoke had a round pink face and ginger hair that, brilliantined, lay on his head like a coating of orange jelly. He had sad benign eyes and might have been a failed priest, one who had chosen the wrong religion. “May we see you in your office?”
Carmody nodded and gestured for the two of them to go ahead of him into the inner office.
Fräulein Luxemburg sniffed at the backs of the Gestapo men. “Can I get you anything, Herr Carmody?” A cup of coffee, a lifebelt, a regiment of tanks?
“Thank you, Fräulein Luxemburg, I’ll be okay.” He went into his office and closed the door. “Who are you gentlemen?”
The ginger-haired man said, “I am Inspector Lutze and this is Sergeant Decker.”
“From the Gestapo?”
Lutze made a face, as if Carmody had said a dirty word. “The Secret State Police.”
Carmody knew how much some State Police officers hated the word Gestapo. He had once done a piece on how it originated. The German name for the department was Geheimes Staatspolizeiamt and some anonymous postal clerk, told to come up with a postal cancellation stamp, had coined the word Gestapa. It had soon turned into Gestapo, a name that came to mean more than just the cancellation of mail. Out of such accidents history picks its villains and heroes.