“Oh well, that explains it then. I’ve become a German spy. Should we stay for lunch?”
Polanyi took a sip of wine. He was like, Morath thought, a man going to work. “They’re going to get rid of him, Nicholas. It’s dangerous for me to tell you that, and dangerous for you to know it, but this Colonel Stieffen has opened a door and now I have, against my better judgment, believe me, to let you inside.”
“To get rid of who?”
“Hitler.”
No answer to that.
“If they fail, we will have war, and it will make the last one look like a tea party. The fact is, if you hadn’t called me, I was going to call you. I believe it’s time for you to think seriously about how to get your mother and your sister out of Hungary.”
It had a life of its own, the war, like an immense rumor, that wound its way through the newspapers, the cafes, and the markets. But somehow, in Polanyi’s voice, it was fact, and Morath, for the first time, believed it.
Polanyi leaned forward, his voice confidential. “Hitler is going to
Morath looked for contradictions. He couldn’t find them.
“This is what worries me, this is what ought to worry you, but this means very little to the OKW, the Oberkommando Wehrmacht, the army’s general staff. Those people-the map people, the logistics people, the intelligence people-have always been accused, by operational commanders, of thinking more than is good for them, but this time they’ve got it right. If Hitler attacks Czechoslovakia-which is easy for Germany because, since the Anschluss, they surround the Czechs on three sides-England, France, and Russia will come into the war. Germany will be destroyed. But, more important to the OKW, the
Morath thought for a time. “In a way,” he said, “this is the best thing that could happen.”
“If it happens, yes.”
“What can go wrong?”
“Russia fights only if France does. France and England will fight only if Germany invades and the Czechs resist. Hitler can be removed only for starting a war he can’t win.”
“Will the Czechs fight?”
“They have thirty-five divisions, about 350,000 men, and a defensive line of forts that runs along the Sudetenland border. Said to be good-as good as the Maginot Line. And, of course, Bohemia and Moravia are bordered by mountains, the Shumava. For the German tanks, the passes, especially if they are defended, will be difficult. So, certain people in the OKW are making contact with the British and the French, urging them to stand firm. Don’t give Hitler what he wants, make him fight for it. Then, when he fights, the OKW will deal with him.”
“Making contact, you said.”
Polanyi smiled. “You know how it’s done, Nicholas, it’s not a lone hero, crawling through the desert, trying to save the world. It’s various people, various approaches, various methods. Connections. Relationships. And when the OKW people need a quiet place to talk, away from Berlin, away from the Gestapo, they have an apartment in the rue Mogador-where that rogue Von Schleben sees his Roumanian girlfriend. Who knows, it might even be a place to meet a foreign colleague, over from London for the day.”
“A setting provided by their Hungarian friends.”
“Yes, why not?”
“And, similarly, the man we brought into Paris.”
“Also for Von Schleben. He has many interests, many projects.”
“Such as …”
Polanyi shrugged. “He didn’t explain, Nicholas. I didn’t insist.”
“And Colonel Stieffen?” Now they’d ridden the merry-go-round back to where they’d started. Morath might have gotten the brass ring, he wasn’t sure.
“Ask Dr. Lapp,” Polanyi said. “If you feel you have to know.”
Morath, puzzled, stared at his uncle.
“If you should happen to see him, I meant to say.”
On Saturday mornings, Cara and Nicky went riding in the Bois de Boulogne, on the Chemin des Vieux Chenes, or around the Lac Inferieur. They rode big chestnut geldings, the sweat white and foamy above the horses’ hocks in the midsummer heat. They rode very well; they both came from countries where horseback riding was part of life, like marriage or religion. Sometimes Morath found the bridle paths boring, too sedate-he had galloped into machine-gun positions and jumped horses over barbed wire-but the feel of it brought him a peace he could find no other way.
They nodded to the other couples, everyone smart in their jodhpurs and handmade boots, and trotted along at a good, stiff pace in the shade of the oak trees.
“I have a letter from Francesca,” Cara told him. “She says the house in Sussex is lovely, but small.”
“If you’d prefer something grand, we’ll go up to the baroness’s place.”
“That’s what you’d like, right, Nicky?”
“Well,” Morath said. He really didn’t care but pretended in order to please Cara. “Maybe Normandy’s better. Cool at night, and I like to swim in the sea.”
“Good. I’ll write this afternoon. We can see Francesca when she comes in the fall. For the clothes.”
Boris Balki telephoned and asked him to come to the nightclub. The Balalaika was closed for the August vacation, the tables covered with old bedsheets. There was no beer to drink, so Balki opened a bottle of wine. “They won’t miss it,” he said. Then, “So, you must be leaving soon.”
“A few days. The great migration.”
“Where do you go?”
“Normandy. Just outside Deauville.”
“That must be nice.”
“It’s all right.”
“I like the time off,” Balki said. “We have to paint, fix the place up, but at least I don’t have to make jokes.” He reached in a pocket, unfolded a page of cheap writing paper covered with small Cyrillic characters. “It’s from a friend of mine, in Budapest. He writes from Matyas Street.”
“Not much there. The prison.”
From Balki, a grim smile.
“Oh.”
“He’s an old friend, from Odessa. I thought, maybe, if somebody knew somebody …”
“Matyas is the worst-in Budapest, anyhow.”
“He says that, as much as he can get it past the censor.”
“Is he in for a long time?”
“Forty months.”
“Long enough. What’d he do?”
“Bonds.”
“Hungarian?”
“Russian. Railroad bonds. The 1916 kind.”
“Somebody
