by Alan Furst
“Friends?” Schau-Wehrli said. “His friends can’t help? Did she mean the Jewish community? Lawyers, people like that? “
“Or work associates,” Szara mused. “People at the German companies he deals with.”
“The point is,” Goldman said, “has he been arrested as a Jew? Or a spy?”
“If they caught him spying, they would have taken her as well,” Schau-Wehrli said. “And the Gestapo would have him-that means Columbia House, not Sachsenhausen.”
“Perhaps,” Goldman said. “It’s hard to know.”
“Can he be helped?” Szara asked.
“That’s a question for the Directorate, but yes, it has been done before. For the time being, the Berlin operatives are going to try and contact him in the camp and let him know we’re aware of what’s happened and that we’re going to get him out. We’re trying to help him to resist interrogation. Do you think he can? “
Szara sensed that Baumann’s life hung on his answer: “If anyone can, he will. He’s a strong man, psychologically. His physical condition is another matter. If the interrogation is extreme, he may die on them.”
Goldman nodded at the answer. “At your meeting in Berlin, was anything said that can help explain either his message, the ‘members of the diplomatic and military classes’ business, or his wife’s reference to ‘friends.’ Are those, perhaps, the same people?”
“They could be,” Szara lied. “I can’t say.”
“Is that your answer?” the man in the glasses asked.
Szara faced him. The eyes behind the thick lenses were watery and lifeless. “My answer is no. Nothing was said that would explain either of those statements.”
Traveling back to Paris on a succession of local trains they had to sit in separate compartments. That gave Szara time to think while the somber towns of northeastern France rolled past the window.
He felt old. It was the business with Nadia Tscherova again, only worse. He was tormented by what had happened to Baumann, and by his own part in the man’s destruction, yet what he had seen on Kristallnacht went a long way toward justifying what they had done together. A sacrifice of war. A machine gun position left to delay an enemy’s progress down a road while the rear guard retreats. All very well, he thought, until you’re the machine gunner. In his not so secret heart he thought it might be for the best if Baumann were to die. Peacefully. A death of mercy. But his instinct told him that would not happen. Baumann was frightened, exhausted, beaten down and humiliated, but also strong. A hard soul lived in that old gray man.
Of course the Russian-German treaty explained it all. From the beginning, Von Polanyi’s intelligence unit in the German Foreign Office had fathered Baumann’s approach to the Soviet apparat: a communications channel had been opened up. Baumann’s production figures were probably being traded for information coming back the other way, but moving along an entirely different path. At this very moment, he speculated, some Russian in Leningrad was being told to have no further contact with a certain Finnish ferry captain. That’s how things were done, agreements made and kept. We will keep you informed, they’d said to somebody in 1937, of our bomber production. Secretly, by intelligence means, because neither our countries, nor our leaders, Hitler and Stalin, may be seen by the world to accept each other’s existence. We are officially mortal enemies, yet it is to our mutual advantage to have certain understandings. Thus, Szara realized, Baumann’s numbers were confirmed by the British because he was not being run by Nazi counterintelligence, Schellenberg’s office in the Referat VI C.
In another month the pact between Hitler and Stalin would be revealed to the world. Thus they’d shut down the Baumann operation because they no longer needed to communicate in this way. Henceforth such figures would travel by telex from foreign office to foreign office. Meanwhile somebody-not Von Polanyi, based on what Frau Baumann had said to Odile-had decided to throw Baumann into Sachsenhausen. Their way of saying thank you, evidently.
No, Szara told himself, you may not think that way. Germans do things for reasons. It was more likely their way of saying now get out of Germany, Jew. And here’s a little taste of something unpleasant to help you remember to keep your mouth shut.
Maybe, Szara told himself. Just maybe. Something in Goldman’s statement about Sachsenhausen had been hopeful, as though Baumann’s extrication could be achieved and he knew it.
Oh, but that clever little bastard was smart! He’d sniffed all around the truth. Which was that the “friends” and the “diplomats” were one and the same and that “you” meant Szara and nobody else. What had Baumann actually intended? That would bear thinking about, but there was a nugget to be mined somewhere in those formal words, something he wanted to give to Szara-a present to his case officer. Why? Because he knew Szara, and, despite endless orders and urgent requests for more information- requests unheeded, orders ignored-Szara had not abandoned him or threatened him. Now he said: Please help me, and I’ll help you.
Meanwhile that other one, with the glasses, who was he?
Oh Russia, he said to himself, what strange humans you grow.
And now he had to follow Goldman’s orders, given a month ago in Brussels and repeated as he left Arion: write something. Now he had to go home and do it. Of all the things in the world he didn’t want to do, that was near the top of the list. In these turbulent days, people of good will ought to be asking themselves certain difficult questions. Close the window, shut out the noise of the crowds marching in the streets, and face the issue squarely and without emotion: What can be the future of socialism in today’s world? How shall it best survive?
At somebody’s intellectual soiree he’d met an editor. What was his name? A proud little rooster crowing atop his own little dunghill of a magazine. “Come and see me, Andre Aronovich,” the man had crooned. Now aren’t you, Szara thought at the time, just the most clever fellow to address me by my patronymic, you oily little bore. Ah, but look here, here’s fate with a swift kick in the backside-the rooster was going to get what he wanted, a fat scoop of corn tossed into his yard. Would Szara perhaps get paid? Hah! A meager lunch maybe-“I always order the daily special here, Andre Aronovich, I recommend it.” Do you? Well, myself I think I’ll have the peacock in gold sauce.
He’d better get it done, he thought. He’d collected his portmanteau from the Hungarian in the seventh arrondissement and expected to get his travel orders any day. Where, he wondered, would they send him.
He woke as in a dream. For a moment he wasn’t anywhere at all, adrift in no place he knew but, as in a dream, it did not matter, there was nothing to fear. He lay on top of his raincoat in the loft of a barn, the smell of the hay beneath him sweet, freshly cut. High above him was a barn roof, silvery and soft with age, early light just barely glowing between the cracks where the boards had separated. Sitting up, he faced a broad, open window-it was what they used, standing on their wagons, to pitch forkfuls of hay into the loft. He crawled across the hay in order to look out and saw that it was just after dawn: a shaft of sunlight lay across a cut field, strands of ground mist rising through it. Beside a narrow road of packed, sandy soil stood a great oak; its leaves rattled softly in the little wind that always comes with first light.
There were three men on the road. Men from a dream. They wore black shoes and black leggings and long black coats and black hats with broad brims. They were bearded, and long sidelocks curled from beneath the brims of their hats. Hasidim, he thought, on their way to shul. Their faces were white as chalk. One of them turned and looked at him, a look without curiosity or challenge; it took note of a man watching from the window of a barn, then it turned away, back toward the road. They made no sound as they walked, and then, like black and white ghosts in a dream, they vanished.
Poland.
His mind came to life very slowly. The previous day, when he tried to recall it, had broken into fragments, blurred images of travel. He had flown to an airfield near Warsaw on an eight-seater plane that bumped across a
ridged tar surface after it landed. There was deep forest on three sides of the airfield, and he’d wondered if this were the main field that served the city. All day he’d never really known exactly where he was. There was a taxi. A train. No, two trains. A ride in a wagon on a hot day. A dog who growled deep in his throat yet wagged his tail at the same moment. A peddler met on a road. The slow apprehension that he would not arrive anywhere in particular any time soon, that he was where he was, that travelers slept in barns. An old woman, a kerchief tied around her seamed face, said that he was welcome. Then there was a mouse, a moon, the slow, swimming dreams of sleep in an unknown place.
He leaned against the worn barnwood and watched the day break. There was still a quarter moon, white against the blue-black morning sky. A band of storm clouds moved east, edges stained red by the rising sun. Here and there light broke through the clouds, a pine wood appeared on the horizon, a rye field took color, a sharp green, as he watched. This ghostly, shifting light, wet smell of morning earth, crows calling as they flew low along the curve of a field, he could remember. He had once lived in this part of the world, a long time ago, and sometimes they had ventured beyond the winding streets of Kishinev and he’d witnessed such mornings, when he was a little boy who woke up long before anyone else did in order not to miss any of the miracles. He could see himself, kneeling on a bed in front of a window, a blanket around his shoulders. He could see the sun climbing a hill on a morning in late summer.
“Hey up there, pan, are you asleep still?”
He leaned out the window and peered down to find the old woman looking up at him from the yard. She stood, with the aid of a stick, like a small, sturdy pyramid, wearing sweaters and jackets on top, broad skirts below. Her dogs, a big brown one and a little black and white one, stood by her side and stared up at him as well. “Come along to the house,” she called up to him. “I’ll give you coffee.”
She hobbled away without waiting for an answer, the dogs romping around her, sniffing the bushes, lifting a leg, pressing the earth with their extended forepaws to have a morning stretch.
On the way to the farmhouse, Szara saw that she’d left two large, wooden buckets by the well and, like any tramp worth his salt, he knew she wanted him to bring the water in. First he took off his Paris shirt, worked the squeaky pump handle, and splashed himself with surges of icy water from the spout. He shivered in the early morning air and rubbed himself dry with the shirt, then put it back on and combed his wet hair back with his fingers. When he rinsed his mouth, the cold water made his teeth ache. Next he filled the buckets and staggered into the kitchen, absolutely determined not to slop water on the floor. The farmhouse was an old drystone building with a low ceiling, a tile stove with a large crucifix on the wall above it, and glass windows. The smell of the coffee was strong in the close air of the kitchen.
She brought it to him in a china cup-the saucer was apparently no more-that must have been a hundred years old. “Thank you, matrushka,” he said, taking a sip. “The coffee is very good.”
“I always have it. Every morning,” she said proudly. “Except when the wars come. Then you can’t get it for any money. Not around here, you can’t.”
“Where am I, exactly?”
“Where are you? Why you’re in Podalki, that’s where!” She cackled and shook her head at such a question, made her way to the stove, and, using her skirt as a potholder, withdrew a pan of bread from the oven. This she placed by the side of his coffee, went off to the pantry and returned with a bowl of white cheese covered with a cloth. She put a knife and a plate before him, then stood by the stove while he ate. He wanted to ask her to sit with him, but he knew that such a request would offend her sense of propriety. She would eat when he was done.
He sawed off the heel of the bread and covered the steaming slab with white cheese. “Oh, this is very good,” he said.
“You must be on your way to the city,” she said. “To Czestochowa.”
“I’m on my way to Lvov.”
“Lvov!”
“That’s right.”
“Blessed Mother, Lvov. You’re a long way from there,” she said with awe at the distance he contemplated traveling. “That’s a Ukrainian place, you know,” she told him.
“Yes. I know.”
“They say it’s in Poland, but I don’t think so, myself. You’ll want to watch your money, over there.”
“Have you been there, matrushka?”
“Me?” She laughed at the idea. “No,” she said. “People from Podalki don’t go there.”
When he was done with the breakfast he put a few zloty under the rim of the plate. Back in the barn loft he spread his map out on the hay, but the village of Podalki wasn’t to be found. One of the Tass men from Paris who’d been on the plane with him had a much more detailed map, but they’d become separated at the railroad station in Warsaw. He found Czestochowa easily enough. If that was the next town of any size, he’d crossed the river Warta the day before. The man driving the cart had called it something else, and it was just a wide expanse of water, sluggish and shallow at summer’s end. The man in the wagon had driven up a tiny path, and Szara was taken across the river by an old Jewish ferryman with a patch over one eye. He had a wooden raft and pulley system, hauling on a rope until they were on the other bank. The ferryman told him that the little road would, if he were patient and lucky, eventually take him to Cracow. “From there you can go anywhere at all, if you want,” the man had said, pocketing the tiny fare with a shrug that questioned why anybody bothered going anywhere at all.
Szara folded the map, returned it to his satchel, put his soft felt hat on, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. When he came out of the barn, the old lady and her dogs were taking the cow out to pasture. He thanked her again, she wished him a safe journey, made the sign of the cross to protect him on his way, and he headed down the narrow, sandy road in the direction of Podalki village.
Twenty minutes later he was there. It wasn’t much. A few log houses scattered on both sides of a dirt street, a man with shaven head and cavalry mustache, sleeves rolled up on the hot day, thumbs hooked in suspenders as he lounged in the doorway of what Szara took to be the Podalki store. There was a tiny, Jewish ghetto on the other side of the village: women in wigs, a Hasid, yarmulke pinned to his hair, chopping wood in the little yard of his house, pale children with curly sidelocks who watched him, cleverly, without actually staring, as he went past. Then Podalki was no more, and he was alone again on the broad Polish steppe, amid endless fields that ran to the forest on the horizon.
He walked and walked, the sun grew hotter, the valise heavier; he started to sweat. The fields on either side of the narrow road were alive; insects buzzed and whirred, the black, moist earth had a certain smell to it, rotting and growing, sweet and rank at once. Sometimes a clump of white birch stood by a small stream, the delicate leaves flickering in the slightest breeze. From this perspective, his life in the city looked frantic and absurd. The intensity of his work, the grating, fretful anxiety of it, seemed utterly artificial. How strange to care so deeply about such nonsense-codes and papers, packages exchanged in movie theaters, who had lunch with who at a hotel in Berlin. It was madness. They spun around like the blindfolded It in a children’s game. In early August someone had broken into a dry cleaning plant on the outskirts of Paris and stolen the uniforms of the Polish military attache’s staff. A great hubbub ensued: meetings, wireless messages, questions without answers, answers without questions.
But that was nothing compared to what came next, on the twenty-third of August, the Hitler/Stalin pact was announced. Oh and hadn’t there been just every sort of hell to pay! Weeping and moaning and gnashing of teeth. It had been just as Goldman had predicted-the idealists wringing their hands and beating their breasts. Some people were quite literally stunned-walked about the streets of Paris and were heard to make doleful and solemn declarations: “I have determined to break with the party.” There were even suicides. What, Szara wondered
, had they thought they were playing at? Philosophy?
He heard the creak of cart wheels behind him and the clop of hooves. A wagon driven by a young boy overtook him, a vast load of hay mounded in the bed. Szara moved to one side of the road to let it pass, stepping between furrows at the edge of a field. “Good morning, pan,” said the boy as the cart drew up beside him. Szara returned the greeting. The smell of the old horse was strong in the heat of the day. “A pretty morning we have,” said the boy. “Would you care to ride a way?” The wagon didn’t actually stop, but Szara hauled himself up and perched on the wooden rim next to the driver. The horse slowed perceptibly. “Ah, Gniady, now you mustn’t be like that,” said the boy, clucking at the horse and flapping the reins. They rode for a time in silence; then a tiny track, two ruts wide, opened up between fields and the boy chucked the left rein to turn the horse. Szara thanked the boy and dismounted. “Walking once again, he thought, Now there’s the job for me. Sometimes he saw men and women at work in the fields. The harvest was only just beginning, but now and then the flash of a scythe would catch the light. The women worked with skirts tucked up, their bare legs white against the wheat or rye stalks.
Somebody, Szara realized, was going to be very annoyed with him for dropping out of sight like this, but that was just too bad. Let them go to hell and rage at the devils. He was tired of their threats-he had rejoined reality, as it happened, and they would have to get along in their dream world as best they could. Above him, the sky spread out to heaven, the morning blue growing pale and hazy as the day wore on. Well to the south there rose a low, dark shape, a distant mountain range, with white cloud building slowly above it, a thunderstorm for the humid evening to come. This was what existed: the steppe, the enormous sky, the wheat, the packed sand of the little road. For a moment he was part of it, simply a fact of nature, no more, no less. He didn’t even know what day it was. He’d left Paris on the thirtieth of August, though he’d thought of it as the twenty-ninth, since it was three o’clock in the morning, still “last night,” when he’d taken a taxi to Le Bourget airport. The long day of meandering through eastern Poland had been, in fact, the thirtieth. That made it the very end of summertime.