Berlin: A Novel

The muted sound of voices rose in the hotel bar. She sat down at one of the little tables. A couple of high-ranking German officers were drinking aperitifs with their women. Some French businessmen were pouring RICARD over a cube of sugar in a glass. The world was going to the devil in style. She ordered a glass of champagne.

Two men were drinking whisky at the bar. Marlene saw the backs of their tweed jackets. One of them was watching her in the mirror. It was Frank Saunders. He nodded at her with an inquiring glance, and she inclined her head. He picked up his whisky glass and strolled over to her.

'Changed your hunting grounds?'

'What, with all the local competition?' She adopted his own light tone as if they'd last met only yesterday.

'You have no competition at all.' He kissed her fingertips. 'How about it? I live just around the corner.'

'Going there at once, are we, or can I finish my drink?'

'Hey, sweetheart, you never used to be so touchy. Tell me, what are you doing in Paris?'

'It's a long story. Are you still with the Herald Tribune?'

'In charge of our office here. Fascinating job. As a neutral I have freedom of movement.'

'I have something for you. Where can we talk undisturbed?'

'Like I said, I live just around the corner.'

'Not to fuck, Frank. To talk.'

'The pianist at Harry's plays so loud you can hardly hear yourself speak. It's only a step away.' Saunders waved to the waiter and paid. 'See you tomorrow, Ernest.' He clapped his tweed-clad companion on the shoulder as he passed. A colleague. Reporter for the New York Times, writes novels on the side.'

Harry's New York Bar was in the rue Daunou. A piano tinkled a metallic staccato as they entered. 'Two glasses of Scotch in the back room,' Saunders ordered. 'OK, shoot,' he said.

'Which bit would you like to hear about first? Skeletons with skin stretched over their bones starving on watery soup? Guards beating helpless prisoners to death with their cudgels? Human subjects with their heads chopped off for use in experiments? Or just being kept in a cellar where the rats gnaw off your toes? The place is called Blumenau. It's one of their camps. They torture and murder human beings there.'

'Sounds damn improbable. And what are you, a German civilian, doing in Paris in the middle of the war? Where did you come by this story? Are you sure of the details? Convince me.'

She talked without stopping for half an hour. In spite of the horrors, she didn't forget to mention the forged money. Saunders pushed his whisky glass back and forth. He thought about it. 'Yes, this is what we must do,' he finally said. 'Listen. My secretary Nancy is blonde like you. With horn-rimmed glasses you'd resemble her passport photo. We can take the plane from Lisbon over the Azores to Florida and fly on to New York. As soon as we land I'll introduce you to the press and radio.' His enthusiasm was growing as he talked. 'Ex-wife of concentration camp commandant tells all. What about that? Good, don't you think? Sweetheart, it will be the sensation of the year, with your sex appeal. You'll get a fabulous fee. And most important of all, you'll be safe.'

As simple as that.' Her tone conveyed the despair of all the maltreated people for whom there was no escape.

'Nancy's hair is shorter than yours. Go to the hairdresser.'

'Telephone!' called the barkeeper, holding up the receiver. After a brief conversation, Frank Saunders returned to their table.

'I don't want to go to America,' said Marlene quietly. 'I want to stay here. And when the whole bloody thing is over I want to go back to Berlin.'

'You'll be able to do that sooner than you dared to hope. That call was from my office. Hitler's declared war on the United States. The poor stupid sod doesn't know that means he's lost the war, of course. Sorry, I must go and pack. They're giving us just a few hours to leave the country.'

'Will you publish the story?'

'It's worth nothing without you there in person. You can't sell that kind of thing at home without sex appeal. Sorry, sweetheart. Try the Swedes. They have a gloomy Nordic taste for horror stories.'

She walked away without a word. There was nothing more to say.

She ran into Major Wachter outside the Cafe de I'Opera. It was too late to avoid him. 'You're not going to turn me down this time, are you?' he asked.

'Very well, a cup of coffee.'

'I don't even know your name.'

'Helene Neumann. I'm from Berlin. I'm here looking for suitable quarters for the local headquarters of our Women's Association.'

'I'm from Nuremberg. A toy manufacturer. I get around Paris a good deal as adjutant to the city commandant.' He waited for her reaction. 'We could have a lot of fun together,' he said.

Still doesn't know how to win me over, she thought, analysing his advances to her.

Adjutant to the city commandant — that must be an interesting post,' she said non-committally.

'Paradise for a lover of French food and wine. The French are paying court to the victor. I accompany the general to dozens of receptions and banquets. Though sometimes I'd rather have a couple of good Nuremberg sausages and a beer.'

She rose to her feet. 'Thank you for the coffee.'

He leaped up. 'Shall we see each other again, Fraulein Neumann?'

'Perhaps. I quite often come here for a cup of coffee. Good day, Major.'

'I'll take you home. Just let me call an official car.' He was making for the nearest public telephone.

Marlene beckoned to a bicycle taxi. 'Montmartre.' With a sigh of relief, she fell into the seat.

'Spy, traitor, sale Boche!' hissed Yvonne. Someone had seen Marlene with the major.

'You'll have to explain,' said Armand calmly.

'He spoke to me outside the Louvre the day I arrived, absolutely insisted on carrying my case. Name of Major Achim Wachter. I ran into him by chance at the Cafe de I'Opera today. Was I supposed to run away? I accepted his invitation to a coffee. It wasn't easy to get rid of him.'

'What do you know about him?'

'Only that he's a toy manufacturer in civilian life, and at present he's adjutant to the city commandant.'

'It's all a lie. She's working for the Germans,' cried Yvonne in agitation. 'Can't you see how cleverly she's wormed her way in with us? Joins in a couple of operations for the sake of camouflage. Then she'll turn us in to the Gestapo.'

Armand was thinking out loud. 'The German city commandant's headquarters are at the Palais de Verny. The Marquis de Verny built it in the fifteenth century. We have a plan of the layout of all the rooms from the cellars to the attics, got it from the city archives. We know from the French staff that the general works in the library. and his secretariat is in the music room next to it. Intelligence has its offices on the second floor. The Military Police conduct operations from the south wing. What we don't know is the precise location of the cells down in the vaults where they hold people they've arrested until they hand them over to the French or German police, which is to say the SS. Madeleine, I'd like you to meet the adjutant again. The success of an operation to free detainees might depend on the answer.'

So she drank her coffee in front of the Cafe de l'Opera every afternoon. She had to wait a week for the major to reappear. '1 was on leave, a quick visit home. use and the boys just didn't want to let me go. I hope you're not going to run away again today. I have the evening off. Would you give me the great pleasure of dining with me?'

He had ordered a suite in the George V hotel, with a silent waiter who poured the champagne and served dinner. There was freshly smoked Loire salmon, consomme of Limousin beef, and snipe with wild peaches.

There he goes spending a fortune, and I'd get between the sheets with him for nothing but a sausage! She grinned to herself. She had decided to take the direct route. The direct route was by way of bed, and she knew from experience that it usually got her where she wanted. She ate with a hearty appetite, ignoring the culinary refinements. As a child of Ri benstrasse she knew that you don't live to eat, you eat to live.