wrote.
The SS man pointed to the door, where Szara’s valise stood to one side with several envelopes stacked on top of it. When the last signature was executed, the gnome said, “Come along, then.” Szara held the envelopes under one arm, picked up the valise, and used his free hand to hold his pants up. “Do you have an umbrella we can use?” the gnome asked the SS trooper.
“A thousand apologies,
The gnome sighed with resignation. “Good night, then. Heil Hitler. Thank you for your kind assistance.”
In the floodlit courtyard stood a small green Opel, its hood steaming in the rain. The man opened the door and Szara climbed in and leaned back against the leather seat. Water sluiced down the windshield and blurred the floodlights to golden rivers. The little man slid behind the wheel, turned on the ignition, said, “Excuse me,” and, leaning across Szara, retrieved a Luger automatic pistol from the glove compartment. “Your forbearance,” he said formally, “in not punching me will be appreciated. And please don’t jump out of the car-I haven’t run since childhood. Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t run then either.”
“May I ask where we’re going? ” Szara opened the envelopes, put his belt on and laced up his shoes.
“You certainly may,” said the gnome, peering through the rain, “but it wouldn’t mean anything even if I told you.” Uncertainly, he steered the Opel across the broad courtyard, flipped a leather card case open and showed it to a guard, then drove ahead when the iron gate swung open. There was a sudden shout behind them.
“What are they yelling about?”
“To turn on the windshield wipers.”
“Yes, well,” the gnome grumbled, turning on the wipers, “wake a man up at midnight and what do you expect.” The Opel turned the corner from Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse to Saarlandstrasse. “So,” he said. “You’re the man who worked in Paris. You know what we Germans say, don’t you. ‘God lives in France.’ Someday I would like to go.”
“I’m sure you will,” Szara said. “I really must insist on asking you where we are going.” He didn’t care if the man shot him. His fingers rested lightly on the door handle.
“We’re going to a place near Altenburg. There. Now the secret’s out.”
“What’s there?”
“You ask entirely too many questions, if you’ll permit me. Perhaps it’s done in France-it isn’t here. I can only say that I’m sure everything will be explained. It always is. After all, you’re not handcuffed, and you’ve just left the worst place you could possibly be- now doesn’t that tell you something? You’re being rescued, so be a gentleman, sit quietly, and think up some entertaining stories about Paris. We’ll be driving for a few hours.”
They drove, according to the road signs, south, through Leipzig, in the general direction of Prague. Eventually the car entered a network of small roads, the engine whining as they climbed. At the top of a hill, the Opel entered the courtyard of a small inn surrounded by woods. A single light could be seen, illuminating a yellow room at the apex of the steeply slanted roof.
The man who opened the door of the yellow room was not someone he’d met before, of that Szara was certain. Yet there was something strangely familiar about him. He was a tall, reedy fellow in his late thirties, balding, a few wisps of fragile blond hair combed neatly to one side. He was chinless, unfortunately so, with a hesitant, almost apologetic little smile that suggested ancient family and rigid breeding-as though a guest had just broken a terribly valuable vase while the host, fearing only that he would be seen to be discourteously brokenhearted, smiled anxiously and swore it was nothing. “Please come in,” the man said. The voice was intelligent and strong, entirely at odds with his physical presence. He extended his hand to Szara and said, “I am Herbert Von Polanyi.”
Now Szara understood, at least, his curious sense of recognition: Marta Haecht, describing Dr. Julius Baumann’s luncheon companion at the Hotel Kaiserhof, had drawn a perfect verbal portrait of him. Szara evidently stared. Von Polanyi canted his head a little to one side and said, “You don’t know who I am, of course.” The statement was not entirely sure of itself-a tribute, Szara guessed, to the NKVD’s reputation for omniscience.
“No,” Szara said. “I don’t. But I am greatly in your debt, whoever you are, for getting me out of that very bad place. Apparently, you must know who I am.”
“Well yes, I do know who you are. You are the Soviet journalist Szara, Andre Szara. Connected, formerly connected I think, with a certain Soviet organization in Paris.” Von Polanyi gazed at him for a moment. “Strange to meet you in person. You can’t imagine how I studied you, trying to learn your character, trying to predict what you, and your directors, would do in certain situations. Sometimes I worried you would succeed, other times I was terrified you might fail. The time one spends! But of course you know that. We were connected through Dr. Julius Baumann; I was his case officer, as were you. Two sides of the same game.”
Szara nodded, taking it all in as though for the first time.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Von Polanyi’s face glowed with triumph. “It is nothing.” He brushed victory away with a sweep of his hand. “Come in, for God’s sake. Let’s be comfortable-there’s coffee waiting.”
It was a spacious room with a few pieces of sturdy old furniture. Two small couches stood perpendicular to the window, facing each other over a coffee table. Von Polanyi, slightly awkward and storklike, arranged himself on one of the couches. He was dressed for the country, in wool pants and flannel blazer with a broad, quiet tie. A coffee service was laid out on the table, and Von Polanyi performed the various rituals with pleasure, fussing with sugar lumps and warm milk. “This is something of an occasion,” he said. “It’s rare for two people like us to meet. But, here we are. You are physically well, I hope.” His face showed real concern. “They didn’t-do anything to you, did they? “
“No. They were very correct.”
“It isn’t always so.” Von Polanyi looked away, a man who knew more than was good for him.
“May I ask,” Szara said, “what has become of Dr. Baumann and his wife? “
Von Polanyi nodded his approval of the question; that had to be cleared up immediately. “Dr. Baumann was, against the wishes of the Foreign Ministry which, ah, sponsored his relationship with the USSR, imprisoned in Sachsenhausen camp. Certain individuals insisted on this and we were unable to stop it. There he spent two months before we found a way to intercede. He was mistreated, but he survived. Physically and, I am certain, psychologically. You would find him today much the same as he was. He and his wife were expelled from Germany, having forfeited their possessions, including the Baumann Milling works, now owned by his former chief engineer. The Baumanns are at least safe and have established themselves in Amsterdam. As by now you are aware, all the information Dr. Baumann passed on to you was controlled by an office in the Foreign Ministry. It was, however, and I will discuss this further in a moment, correct information. To the centimeter. So, in the end, you were not fooled. Did you suspect? “
Szara answered thoughtfully: “Russians, Herr Von Polanyi, suspect everyone, always, doubly so in the espionage business. I can say Baumann’s bona fides were permanently in question, but never seriously challenged.”
“Well then, it only means we did our job properly. Of course, he had no choice but to cooperate. Originally, we were able to offer him continued ownership of the business. Later, after Czechoslovakia was taken, the Nazi party gained confidence-the world’s armies did not march, the American Neutrality Act was an inspiration- and the issue became life itself. I am not a sentimentalist, Herr Szara, but coercion on that level is disagreeable and in the end, I suspect, leads to betrayal, though Baumann, according to you, did keep his end of the bargain.”
“He did,” Szara said.
“An honorable man. On the subject of Jews the Nazis are like mad dogs. They will not be reasonable, and such blindness may ultimately destroy us all. I believe that could actually happen.”
This was treason, pure and simple. Szara felt his guard drop a notch.
“On the same subject, I must say it’s fortunate for you that you admitted your real identity-though not, I imagine, your vocation. When the information was disseminated to the various intelligence bureaux we took immediate steps to secure your release. We’re a small office at the Foreign Ministry, simply a group of educated German gentlemen, but we have the right to read everything. I believed that the Gestapo might use you against us, and that is the reason we agreed to spend various favors and obligations in order to have you released. In bureaucratic currency, it was quite costly.”
