DeHaas AG-with a local representative, who paid people and accepted information, but it was known that DeHaas AG was Ivan Kostyka. “The network has been dormant since ’39,” she said. “It’s our job to see if any of it can still be used.”
Visit a hundred and fifty-eight souls?
“Not in this life,” she said. “We know who we want to contact. And for God’s sake don’t say what we’re doing.”
They talked for a time but didn’t stay long, it was not a comfortable place to be. Out in the street he noticed a man walking toward them, who met Marie-Galante’s eyes for a moment, then looked away. In his late twenties, with the straight back of a military officer and, Serebin thought, perhaps a Slav, maybe Czech, or Polish.
“Someone you know?”
They turned off the strada Lipscani and headed for the hotel. “We’re not alone here,” she said. “That’s not the way it’s done.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, then she said, “And if by chance you should see Marrano, pretend you don’t know him.”
“Anyone else?”
“Not right now, that you need to know about. Maybe later, we’ll see.”
10:30 P.M., the Tic Tac Club, in a cellar on the strada Rosetti. By the doorman-in a uniform that made him at least a general in that army-a signboard with glossy photographs of Momo Tsipler and his Wienerwald Companions, and the local songstress, Valentina-“the toast of Bucharest!” Also playing: the comedian Mottel Motkevich, of whom the Zagreb Telegraf said “Kept us in stitches!” And, “Special every night-those naughty Zebra girls!”
The maitre d’ bowed at the money Serebin put in his hand, and Marie-Galante, in clouds of Shalimar, with hair in a French roll, and evening makeup, took every eye in the room as they were shown to the large table in the corner with a card that said Rezervata. Somebody said “ Ravissant! ” as they walked by, while Serebin, at the rear of the procession, produced a rather compressed public smile.
Onstage, the Momo Tsipler nightclub orchestra, five of them, including the oldest cellist in captivity, as well as a tiny violinist, wings of white hair fluffed out above his ears, Rex the drummer, Hoffy on the clarinet, and Momo himself, a Viennese Hungarian in a metallic green dinner jacket. Momo turned halfway round on his piano stool, acknowledged the grand entry with a smile, then nodded to the singer.
The sultry Valentina, who rested her cigarette in an ashtray on the piano, where the smoke coiled up through the red spotlight, took the microphone in both hands, and sang, voice low and husky, “ Noch einmal al Abscheid dein Handchen mir gib. ” Just once again, give me your hand to hold-the first line of Vienna’s signature torch song, “There Are Things We Must All Forget.”
Valentina was well into her third number, Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do It, Let’s Fall in Love,” when Colonel Maniu- senior official, national gendarmerie, and his wife joined the party at the corner table. She dark and taut and bejeweled, he handsome and imposing in evening clothes. Craggy and leonine, he would play the king, not the prince. They came to the table as “Argentines, without means,” did it-their arrival accompanied by a small commotion in whispers.
“We’re so pleased…”
“Madame Marchais, Madame Maniu.”
“Enchante.”
“Colonel, come sit over here.”
“Madame Maniu, allow me.”
“Why thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
“We’ve just come from the opera!”
“What was it?”
“ Rigoletto. ”
“Good?”
“ Long. ”
Serebin and Marie-Galante were drinking Amalfis-the choice of tout Bucharest — vermouth and Tsuica, the national plum brandy. The colonel ordered expensive scotch, and Madame a glass of wine, left alone after one sip.
For a time they smoked and drank and listened to Valentina; another throaty Viennese love song, then, as finale, Piaf’s “L’Accordeoniste.” This drew immediate and thunderous applause in the crowded cellar. It was clearly sung as a political anthem, for love of that cruelly occupied city nearest the Roumanian heart. Serebin looked over at Marie-Galante, who stared fiercely at the stage, eyes shining, close to tears. On the final note, Valentina put a hand to her heart, the drummer beat a military flourish, and the audience cheered.
Serebin the romantic was moved, Maniu the policeman was not. “Nightclub patriots,” he said.
“And tomorrow?”
Maniu shrugged.
Madame Maniu gave him a look.
“Well, colonel,” Marie-Galante said, “you know the people here, but I think she meant it.”
“She certainly did,” Madame Maniu said.
“May I invite her over?” the colonel said. “You would enjoy meeting her, and she knows all sorts of interesting people.” He took a card from a leather case, wrote on the back, summoned a waiter, and told him what to do. Then he said, “So, how is our mutual friend?”
“As always. He doesn’t change,” Serebin said.
“And he gave you my name? Personally?”
“He did.”
“Why would he do that, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“He’s a good friend of ours-we share an interest in how life will go here.”
“It will go very badly, as it happens. The legionnaires-the members of the League of the Archangel Michael, called the Iron Guard-will fight Antonescu, and his German allies. To the death.”
“They are madmen,” Madame Maniu said.
“For them,” the colonel said, “Antonescu and Hitler are insufficiently fascist. The Legion is drunk with some kind of national mystique, and their position reminds one of the Brown Shirts in Germany, in 1934, who were so crazy, who were such, well, idealists, that Hitler had to destroy them. When Codreanu, who originally organized the Legion-and he was known as ‘God’s executioner’-was killed in ’38, with thirteen of his acolytes, the legionnaires took to wearing little bags of dirt around their necks, supposedly the sacred earth on which their leader fell. And some of the peasants believed, truly believed, that Codreanu was the reincarnation of Jesus Christ.”
The Companions of the Wienerwald began to play a kind of drunken elephant theme, which signaled the appearance of Mottel Motkevich, who, to a series of rim shots from the drummer and an expectant ripple of laughter, staggered to the middle of the stage. The spotlight turned green, and for a time he stood there, swaying, his flabby face sweating in the overheated room. Then he closed his eyes and shook his head, clearly overwhelmed by it all- I just woke up in the maid’s bed with the world’s worst hangover and somebody pushed me out on the stage of a nightclub.
He peered out at the audience for a time, then said, “Where am I, Prague?”
“Bucharest!”
“Hunh.” He sighed, then said, “All right, Bucharest. Say, know where I was last week?”
A different volunteer: “Where?”
“Moscow.” He rolled his eyes at the memory. “Oi vay.”
Laughter.
“Yeah, you better laugh. Did you know, by the way-and this is actually true-they have a perfume factory there, and they make a scent called Breath of Stalin.”
Laughter.
“Can you imagine?” He gave them a moment to think about it. “So, of course, when you’re in Moscow, there’s always a parade. That’s fun, no? Hours of it. When they come to the end, they run around the back streets and march again. Anyhow, I’m standing there with my old friend Rabinovich. Rabinovich is no fool, he knows where his bread is buttered, if he had bread, if he had butter, and he’s holding up a big sign. ‘Thank you, Comrade Stalin, for my happy childhood.’ So, time goes by, and a couple of policemen come over and one of them says, ‘Comrade, it’s a
