by Alan Furst
right away, and they've kept me busy ever since."
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 132
1 3 2 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
They crossed into Germany easily enough, Stefan using a German
passport, and drove north on the road to Tubingen that passed
through Schramberg. "About an hour and half," Stefan said. "I'll take
you into the town and out on the forest road, where I'll pick you up
tomorrow night, so mark the spot carefully."
"Before the roadblock."
"Well before. It's one-point-six miles from the Schramberg town
hall."
"And then, tomorrow night . . ."
"At nineteen-oh-five hours. Stay in the woods until then, I'll be
there on the minute. Is it only a one-day maneuver?"
"Likely more, but they want me out by tomorrow night."
"A good idea," Stefan said. "Don't be greedy, that's what I always
say. And you'll want to watch out for the foresters."
"Don't worry, I'll keep my head down."
"They're always in the woods, cutting, pruning." After a moment
he said, "It's a strange nation, when you think about it. Fussy. Rules
for everything--the branches of each tree must only just touch the
neighboring branches, and so on."
"How do you come to know that?"
"Everybody knows that. In Germany."
They drove on, through pretty Schwabisch villages. Every one of
them had its Christbaum, a tall evergreen in the center of town, with
candles lit as darkness fell, and a star on top. There were also candles
in every window, and red-berried holly wreaths hung on the doors. By
the side of the road, at the entry to each village, stood a sign attacking
the Jews. This was, Mercier thought, a kind of competition, for none
of the signs were the same. Juden dirfen nicht bleiben--"Jews must
not stay here"--was followed by Wer die Juden unterstuzt fordert den
Kommunissmus, "Who helps the Jews helps communism," then the
dramatic "This flat-footed stranger, with kinky hair and hooked nose,
he shall not our land enjoy, he must leave, he must leave."
"Perhaps an amateur poet, that one," Stefan said.
"One publishes where one can," Mercier said.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 133
O N R AV E N H I L L * 1 3 3
"Bastards," Stefan said. "I grew up in the middle of it. Hard to
believe, at first. Then it didn't go away, it grew." He shifted into second
gear, the Opel climbing a grade where forest closed in on the darkening road. He had been rambling along in rough-hewn emigre French,
now he switched to native German and said, quietly, "Ihr sollt in der
Holle schmoren! " Burn in hell.
Twenty minutes later, they reached the town of Schramberg. A
few Wehrmacht officers wandered along the winding streets, pausing
to look in the shop windows, out for a pre-dinner walk to stir the
appetite. In honor of the army's visit, swastika flags lined the square
in front of the ancient town hall, their deep red a handsome contrast
to the green Christbaum, its candles flickering in the evening breeze.
Stefan turned right on the street just past the town hall, took a good
look at the odometer, and then, as the street turned into a narrow
paved road and the town fell away behind them, switched off the headlights. "They don't need to know we're coming," he said, peering into
the gathering darkness, squinting at the odometer. Finally he slowed
and let the car roll to a stop. "At the center of this curve," he said. "See
the rock? That's our mark."
As Mercier reached into the backseat for his walking staff, Stefan
opened the glove compartment and handed him a thick bar of chocolate. "Take this along," he said. "You might want it."
Mercier thanked him and, making sure no headlights were visible,
stepped out of the car and started to cross the road. Stefan rolled the
window down and, his voice close to a whisper, said, "Good hunting.
Remember, nineteen-oh-five hours, by the rock." In two moves he
reversed the car and drove back toward Schramberg.
Pure night. Mercier thought of it that way. Faint stars, wisps of cloud,
and not a sound to be heard. He reached into his pocket and found his
pencil sketch of the Deuxieme Bureau's map. He had to climb the hill
above the road, turn east, and walk a distance just short of two miles,
descending the first hill, climbing a second, and descending again, to a
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 134
1 3 4 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
point just below the crest, where there would be, presumably, a view of
the tank maneuvers. For the moment he was warm enough, though he
could feel the first bite of the night-borne chill. Wool hat, surplus
greatcoat, walking staff, and knapsack--the Swiss hiker, if anyone
were to see him, but it was planned that nobody would. And, he
thought, with a camera in his knapsack, they'd better not. He entered
the forest and started to climb, his footsteps almost silent on the pineneedle litter on the forest floor.
His knee ached soon enough, and he was grateful for the long
staff. When he heard the whine of an approaching car, he moved
behind a tree, then watched the headlights as they swept along the
road, sped around the curve, and disappeared. That would be, he
thought, the changing of the guard at the roadblock. Ten minutes
later, the car returned, headed back to Schramberg, and Mercier
resumed his climb.
The forest never thickened, it was as Stefan had described, a
woodland treated as a kind of garden, every tree identified and carefully nurtured. Even fallen tree branches were removed, perhaps taken
away by the poor, for use as firewood. Suddenly some animal, sensing
his presence, went running off across the hillside. Mercier never saw
it; a wild boar, perhaps, or a deer. Too bad he didn't have his dogs with
him, they would have smelled it long before it broke cover, frozen into
motionless statues, each with left foreleg raised, tail straight, nose
pointed toward the game: that's dinner, right over there. Then, when
the rifle shot didn't follow, they would look at him, waiting for a
release from point.
How he missed them! Well, he'd see them when he went home for
Christmas. If he managed to get there. And, even if he did, his daughter Gabrielle probably wouldn't join him. She'd often meant to, but
then her busy life intervened. And Annemarie wouldn't be there. Not
ever again. So it would be just him and the dogs, and Fernand and
Lisette, who lived in the house and maintained the property--it
belonged more to them now than to him. And they're getting older, he
thought, hired by his grandfather, a long time ago. What, he won-Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 135
O N R AV E N H I L L * 1 3 5
dered, would they make of Anna Szarbek? Well, that he'd never know.
Stop and rest. He put a hand on a pine tree, forcing himself to stand
still until his breathing returned to normal. Whatever drove him,
nameless spirit, had been forcing him uphill at full speed.
Did he truly need to be on this hillside? Any trusted agent could
have operated the camera,
but the people at 2, bis were determined he
should himself stand in for his lost spy, and he'd shown them every
enthusiasm. Still, it was--oh, not exactly dangerous, France wasn't at
war with Germany, but potentially an embarrassing failure, more a
threat to his career than his life.
Again he walked. Confronted by a ravine, with a frozen streamlet
at the bottom, he slid down one side and then, a bad moment, had to
claw his way up the opposing slope. An hour later he was midway
down the second hillside, the trees on the facing hill silver in the light
of the rising moon. He had a look with his field glasses, searching for
an advance unit, but saw nothing. So he unrolled his blanket and sat
on it, back braced against an oak tree, ate some chocolate, and settled
in to wait for dawn.
Slow hours. Sometimes he dozed, the cold woke him, then he dozed
again, finally waking with a start, face numb, hands so stiff they
didn't quite work. He struggled to his feet, rubbing his hands as he
walked back and forth, trying to get warm. His watch said 4:22 but
there was, a week before the winter solstice, no sign of dawn. In the
black sky above him, the stars were sharp points of light, the air cold
and clean and faintly scented by the forest. Then, in the distance, he
heard the faint rumble of engines.
He concentrated on the sound and discovered it was not coming
from the direction of Schramberg, west of him, but from the north. Of
course! The Wehrmacht hadn't bothered to set up a tank park on the
outskirts of town--a long, complicated business involving commissary, medical units, and fuel tankers--they were coming from an army
base, likely somewhere near the city of Tubingen.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 136
1 3 6 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
He rolled up his blanket and climbed until he found a thick forest
shrub, branches bare for the winter but still good cover. The sound
rose steadily, reaching finally an enormous crescendo: the roar of huge
unmuffled engines and the loud clatter of rolling treads. A tank column, stretched far down the road. How many? Thirty tanks in a formation was common; he had to guess there were at least that many.
The earth beneath Mercier trembled as the first lights of the column
appeared on the road, and the air filled with the raw smell of gasoline.
Two staff cars appeared at the foot of the Rabenhugel, then a tank,
and two more, the rest of the column obscured from view by the curve
of the hill.
An officer climbed out of the leading staff car, signaled with his
hand, and, moments later, Mercier heard the stuttering whine of
motorcycles and saw moving lights among the trees. He tracked them
with his field glasses, the riders gray forms, working up the shallow
grade, skidding on the pine-needle carpet, steadying themselves with
a foot on the ground as they wove through the trees. Suddenly, his
peripheral vision caught the motion of a silhouette, uphill from his
position and moving fast, which he managed to catch a glimpse of just
before it vanished: a small bear, whimpering with panic as it ran, low
to the ground, in flight from the invasion of its forest. When he again
looked at the road, a few officers and tank commanders had gathered
by one of the staff cars, smoking and talking, playing a flashlight on a
map spread out on the car's hood.
Army time. Nothing much going on. Waiting. Twenty minutes
later, a pair of Mercedes automobiles came up the road from the
direction of Schramberg, a civilian in an overcoat got out, gave a Heil
salute to what Mercier took to be the senior officer, and received one,
a rather casual version of the raised arm, in return. The officer
pointed, the civilian got back in his car, and it drove away. Perhaps the
engineers, Mercier guessed, there to observe the maneuvers.
At eight o'clock sharp, the rising sun casting shadows on the hills,
the tanks made their first attempt at climbing the Rabenhugel.
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 137
O N R AV E N H I L L * 1 3 7
*
Mercier, working quickly, reached into his knapsack and brought out
the camera, made sure that the handle was fully wound, pointed it at
the climbing tanks, and pressed the button. In the wall of engine noise
he could barely hear it. Also, some other sound distracted him; he
puzzled for a moment, and that almost did for him. A drone, only just
audible above the engine thunder, somewhere above him. Merde, that
was an airplane! He dove to the earth, slid beneath the branches of the
shrub, and rolled onto his back.
Circling lazily in the morning sky, a Fieseler Storch reconnaissance
plane, small and slow, looking like a fugitive from the 1914 air war, but
lethal. Had they seen him? Was the radio alert to a staff car below
already sent? He covered his face with the gray-green sleeve of his
greatcoat and lay perfectly still. The plane's circuit took it north, then,
coming back toward him, it descended, now less than a hundred feet
above the hilltop. At its slowest speed, it skimmed over his head; then,
thirty seconds later, the drone faded away to the west. But Mercier
stayed beneath his shrub, as the plane returned once more, now gaining altitude. For fifteen minutes it circled the site of the maneuvers,
then disappeared.
By the time Mercier was back to his cover position behind the
shrub, the tanks were spread out across the hill, a few hundred feet
above the road, but the exercise was not going well. He could see at
least six of them, the light model Uhl had been working on. Down by
the road, one of the tanks had failed immediately; the crew had the
rear hatch cover off and were kneeling on the deck in order to work on
the engine. A second had climbed thirty feet, then stopped, blue
exhaust streaming from its vent as the commander crawled between
the treads to check on ground clearance. A third had tried to mow
down a pine, had broken it off, then got hung up on the stump and
thrown a tread. The other three had reached the crest of the hill and
were now out of sight. But Mercier could see that all was not well for
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 138
1 3 8 * T H E S P I E S O F WA R S AW
one tank at least, because, in the distance to the north, a column of
black smoke rose slowly above the forest.
They worked at it all morning, and for most of the afternoon. Now
and again, the Fieseler Storch returned for thirty minutes, and Mercier
had to hide beneath the shrub. Then, late in the afternoon, the weak
December sun low in the sky, they tried something new. From the
north, a blue Opel sedan drove up and parked next to the staff cars.
This was, clearly, somebody's personal car: a few years old, its paint
job faded and dusty, a dent on the door panel. The driver, a young
Wehrmacht officer--a lieutenant; Mercier could see the insignia with
his field glasses--talked to the senior officers for a time, then took a
length of iron pipe, long enough so that its end stuck out the rolleddown rear window, from the c
ar. While the others watched, hands
clasped behind their backs in a classic officer pose, he knelt by the
front of the Opel and wired the pipe to the bumper. Mercier adjusted
the field glasses and focused on the lieutenant's face as he chatted away
while he worked at twisting the ends of the wire until it was secure.
Oh well, likely it won't work, but you never know. . . . For a moment,
Mercier wasn't sure what he was looking at, but then, when the lieutenant produced a measuring tape, he understood perfectly: the pipe
was the width of a light tank. The lieutenant slid behind the wheel and
drove cautiously up the hill. More than once he misjudged distance,
one end of the pipe banging into a tree, and had to reverse the Opel
and try a different path. But the idea was simple and effective.
If you contemplated a tank attack through a forest, all you needed
was a car and a length of pipe. If the pipe on the car fit through the
trees, so would a tank.
In the town of Schramberg, the anniversary couple was enjoying the
fourth day of their vacation. On the morning of the fourteenth, after
a copious breakfast, as the lady who'd rented them a room waved
Furs_9781400066025_3p_all_r1.qxp 3/26/08 9:29 AM Page 139
O N R AV E N H I L L * 1 3 9
from the doorway, they set off for their daily walk in the Black Forest.
Such a sweet couple, in their loden-green walking shorts, high stockings, and alpine hats. They headed south out of town, as their kind
hostess had recommended, but then turned north, using a compass to
make sure they weren't going around in circles. After an hour's walk,
they took a radio receiver from a knapsack and ran its aerial up a tree,
fixing it in place with a piece of string. No result, so they kept walking. On the fourth attempt, it worked. Holding a pair of headphones
to his ear, the elderly gentleman smiled with satisfaction: a babble of
voices--commands, curses, yes, sir s and no, sir s, the radio traffic of a
tank formation moving over difficult terrain. The anniversary couple
were now within range of shortwave tank radios, about five miles.
They connected a wire recorder to the receiver and settled in for the
day. Likely the people they worked with would make sense of it; certainly the couple hoped they would.
Not worked for, the way they thought about it, but worked with.