The Polish Officer

you think?”

“Perfect.”

“Now, here is my scheme. My driver will take the two of us up there—it’s a good morning’s drive from Paris —and that way we’ll be alone, but, of course, by happenstance, so all will be quite correct.”

“A natural situation.”

“Who could object? Meanwhile, you and Mademoiselle Beilis will take the train up to Boulogne—it gets in there from Paris about noon. And we’ll pick you up. Did I mention the day? Sunday.”

“Boulogne?”

Genya, paying bills in the Parthenon office, looked up in surprise. “Nobody’s been there since 1890. Deauville, yes. Cabourg, well, maybe. But Boulogne?”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s all those sur-la-plage paintings—the French flag fluttering in the breeze, miles of sand because the tide’s always out, little dogs, ladies with hats.”

“Actually, the way he spoke, it sounded as though the house was inland—‘the hills of Artois.’”

“Well I hope he doesn’t dig in his garden—because what he’ll find is bones and unexploded shells. That’s Flanders, is what that is.”

The goddess was, as advertised, a goddess. Fine porcelain, with china-blue eyes and spots of color in the cheeks, thick auburn hair with a flip that just touched the collar, and a porcelain heart. Freddi Schoen was lost—if he’d cantered about on his hands and knees and bayed it might, might, have been more obvious.

As for Lezhev and Genya, the porcelain doll wasted no time. She couldn’t have been sweeter but: one could understand that a foreign gentleman might not have the knack of social relations in a new country; however, if she took possession of this particular spaniel, they could be sure that he’d seen the last of emigre poets and publishers’ daughters. Rue de Rome publishers’ daughters especially.

Lezhev found it damned hard to be Lezhev. The toasts, the snippets of poems, and all that whooping and carrying-on—his version of a Russian poet loved and lived life to the hilt. Sometimes he silently apologized to poor Lezhev’s shade; clearly he hadn’t loved life all that much, but Freddi Schoen seemed responsive to the performance so that’s where he pitched it, with Genya loving life to the hilt right beside him.

De Milja, on the other hand, had an unforeseen reaction to the porcelain doll. To his considerable surprise, she offended the aristocrat in him, put him in mind of the Ostrow uncles, who would have made short work of such snobbery.

Still, whatever his taste in French aristocrats, Freddi Schoen had been right about the estate. A very old Norman farmhouse—how it had survived the unending wars in that part of the world God only knew, but there it was. Ancient timber and cracked plaster, leaning left and right at once, with tiny windows to keep the arrows out and thick walls to keep the dampness in. It sat in a valley just over a low hill from the river Authie, which just there was quite pretty, winding its course past a network of canals. Naturally August would be its most sumptuous month, the woods a thousand shades of gold and green in the tender light of the French countryside, the banks of the canals cut back to stands of willow, leaves dancing in the little sea breeze. For they were only a few miles from La Manche, the French name for what was called, on the opposite shore some thirty miles away, the English Channel.

After lunch they went for a ride, Freddi Schoen’s driver dressed up in a chauffeur’s uniform for the day. The road ran through breathtaking countryside, forest to the left, meadow to the right. Surprising how the land had healed since 1918, but it had. The grass grew lush and deep green, and there was a cloud of orange butterflies at the edge of a canal where even the barges—some two hundred and forty of them at Lezhev’s count, it took several minutes to drive past—seemed part of the natural beauty of the place. Or, at least, not alien to it; big, square hulls, dark and tarry from a thousand journeys, with only the painted names, Dutch, Belgian, German, or French, to disrupt the harmony of the handsome old wood.

Freddi Schoen, holding court on the leather seat of the big Mercedes, was at his best, charming and voluble and witty as only he could be; the porcelain doll smiled with delight and it was all Lezhev and Genya could do to keep up. Sitting next to the driver, Freddi hung his elbow over the seat and entertained them. “Of course the admiral was a Prussian, with a big, red face like, oh, like . . . a ball!”

Ha ha, but was it eighteen tugboats tied in a row after the intersection of the Route Departmentale 34? No, twenty, Genya told him later.

“A deer!” Freddi Schoen cried out. Then, when the women turned to look at the forest side of the road, he winked at Lezhev. Wasn’t this fine? These two French lovelies riding with them along a road in a Pissarro painting? From Lezhev, a poet’s smile of vast sagacity, confirmed by a wise little shake of the head. No, life wasn’t all bad, it had its moments of great purity, say on a summer day near the sea, rolling past a particularly charming little canal, where some good old soul a generation ago had planted borders of Lombardy poplar, where thirty-one seagoing tugs, tied up to cleats, bobbed lazily when the wind ruffled the surface of the still water.

“I saw it!” Genya Beilis cried out.

Freddi Schoen’s eyes grew wide with amazement—his little joke had grown wings. Fate had put a real deer in the forest; even the gods of Chance were with them today.

19 August, Banque Nationale de Commerce, Orleans.

An old woman wearing a funeral hat had preceded him into one of the little rooms where one communed with one’s safe-deposit box. He could hear her through the wall, mumbling to herself, then counting, each number articulated with whispered ferocity. “Quatorze. Quinze. Seize. Dix-sept. Dix-huit.”

Lezhev had less to whisper about. Only a small slip of paper: “Hotel Bretagne. 38, rue Lepic. Room 608. You are Monsieur Gris, from Lille.”

To hell and gone up an endless hill in the back streets of Montmartre, a hotel two windows wide and six floors tall, the smell of the toilet in the hall good and strong on the fiery August day.

He knocked.

“Yes?”

“Monsieur Gris. From Lille.”

She was five feet tall, blond hair cut back to a boyish cap above a round face and a snub nose. Scared to death, intrepid, Polish.

“How old are you?” he asked in French. She just stood there. He tried again in Polish.

“Seventeen,” she said.

She went to the peeling armoire and opened the door. The suitcase radio was open and ready to transmit. “You are not to be here when I send,” she explained. “An order.”

He indicated that he understood.

She went on, a carefully memorized speech. “Colonel Vyborg sends his regards. You are to occupy yourself with information pertinent to the German plan to attack Great Britain. Where, how, and when. He tells you that the English are the only hope now—airplane drops of ammunition and money and specialists are planned for Poland. For their part, they ask our help in France, in any way we are able. I am to transmit for you, whenever you like, as much as you like.”

“How did you come?”

“Fishing boat to the Brittany coast, from Scotland. Then on a train.”

“With the suitcase in hand.”

She shrugged. “There is no control on the trains. It’s very different here.”

“Where were you in Poland?”

“Lodz. I came to France as a courier, then we fled on the ship Batory, from Bordeaux. On the twenty-second of June, after the surren

der. We were the last ship to leave France.”

“What name do I call you?” he asked.

“Janina,” she said. Her smile was radiant, they were comrades in arms, she was proud to serve at his side. She returned to the armoire, brought out a thick packet of French francs. “We will beat them, Monsieur Gris. We will certainly beat them.”

The two brothers owned a garage in Saclay, in the poor southern suburbs of Paris. This was Wednesday, another three days until the Saturday shave, the white bristle on their cheeks was shiny with motor oil and dark