The Spies of Warsaw

those who least deserved it. But, don’t feel so bad, luck had gone wrong, but it could go right, it always did, given time. Ah but he was sympathique, she’d said, an aristocratic reflex to use the French word in the midst of her fluent German. They went on for a while, back and forth. Perhaps some day, she’d said, if he should find himself in Warsaw, he might telephone; there was the loveliest cafe near her apartment. Perhaps he would, yes, business took him to Warsaw now and again; he guessed he might be there soon. Now, would she permit him to order another glass of wine? Later, she took his hand beneath the table and he was, by the time they parted, on fire.

Ten days later, from a public telephone at the Breslau railway station, he’d called her. He planned to be in Warsaw next week, at the Europejski, would she care to join him for dinner? Why yes, yes she would. Her tone of voice, on the other end of the line, told him all he needed to know, and by the following Wednesday-those idiots in Gleiwitz had done it again! — he was on his way to Warsaw. At dinner, champagne and langoustines, he suggested that they go on to a nightclub after dessert, but first he wanted to visit the room, to change his tie.

And so, after the cream cake, up they went.

For two subsequent, monthly, visits, all was paradise, but, it turned out, she was the unluckiest of countesses. In his room at the hotel, brassy hair tumbled on the pillow, she told him of her latest misfortune. Now it was her landlord, a hulking beast who leered at her, made chk-chk noises with his mouth when she climbed the stairs, who’d told her that she had to leave, his latest girlfriend to be installed in her place. Unless … Her misty eyes told him the rest.

Never! Where Uhl had just been, this swine would not go! He stroked her shoulder, damp from recent exertions, and said, “Now, now, my dearest, calm yourself.” She would just have to find another apartment. Well, in fact she’d already done that, found one even nicer than the one she had now, and very private, owned by a man in Cracow, so nobody would be watching her if, for example, her sweet Edvard wanted to come for a visit. But the rent was two hundred zloty more than she paid now. And she didn’t have it.

A hundred reichsmark, he thought. “Perhaps I can help,” he said. And he could, but not for long. Two months, maybe three-beyond that, there really weren’t any corners he could cut. He tried to save a little, but almost all of his salary went to support his family. Still, he couldn’t get the “hulking beast” out of his mind. Chk-chk.

The blow fell a month later, the man in Cracow had to raise the rent. What would she do? What was she to do? She would have to stay with relatives or be out in the street. Now Uhl had no answers. But the countess did. She had a cousin who was seeing a Frenchman, an army officer who worked at the French embassy, a cheerful, generous fellow who, she said, sometimes hired “industrial experts.” Was her sweet Edvard not an engineer? Perhaps he ought to meet this man and see what he had to offer. Otherwise, the only hope for the poor countess was to go and stay with her aunt.

And where was the aunt?

Chicago.

Now Uhl wasn’t stupid. Or, as he put it to himself, not that stupid. He had a strong suspicion about what was going on. But-and here he surprised himself-he didn’t care. The fish saw the worm and wondered if maybe there might just be a hook in there, but, what a delicious worm! Look at it, the most succulent and tasty worm he’d ever seen; never would there be such a worm again, not in this ocean. So …

He first telephoned-to, apparently, a private apartment, because a maid answered in Polish, then switched to German. And, twenty minutes later, Uhl called again and a meeting was arranged. In an hour. At a bar in the Praga district, the workers’ quarter across the Vistula from the elegant part of Warsaw. And the Frenchman was, as promised, as cheerful as could be. Likely Alsatian, from the way he spoke German, he was short and tubby, with a soft face that glowed with self-esteem and a certain tilt to the chin and tension in the upper lip that suggested an imminent sneer, while a dapper little mustache did nothing to soften the effect. He was, of course, not in uniform, but wore an expensive sweater and a blue blazer with brass buttons down the front.

“Henri,” he called himself and, yes, he did sometimes employ “industrial experts.” His job called for him to stay abreast of developments in particular areas of German industry, and he would pay well for drawings or schematics, any specifications relating to, say, armament or armour. How well? Oh, perhaps five hundred reichsmark a month, for the right papers. Or, if Uhl preferred, a thousand zloty, or two hundred American dollars- some of his experts liked having dollars. The money to be paid in cash or deposited in any bank account, in any name, that Uhl might suggest.

The word spy was never used, and Henri was very casual about the whole business. Very common, such transactions, his German counterparts did the same thing; everybody wanted to know what was what, on the other side of the border. And, he should add, nobody got caught, as long as they were discreet. What was done privately stayed private. These days, he said, in such chaotic times, smart people understood that their first loyalty was to themselves and their families. The world of governments and shifty diplomats could go to hell, if it wished, but Uhl was obviously a man who was shrewd enough to take care of his own future. And, if he ever found the arrangement uncomfortable, well, that was that. So, think it over, there’s no hurry, get back in touch, or just forget you ever met me.

And the countess? Was she, perhaps, also an, umm, “expert”?

From Henri, a sophisticated laugh. “My dear fellow! Please! That sort of thing, well, maybe in the movies.”

So, at least the worm wasn’t in on it.

Back at the Europejski-a visit to the new apartment lay still in the future-the countess exceeded herself. Led him to a delight or two that Uhl knew about but had never experienced; her turn to kneel on the carpet. Rapture. Another glass of champagne and further novelty. In time he fell back on the pillow and gazed up at the ceiling, elated and sore. And brave as a lion. He was a shrewd fellow-a single exchange with Henri, and that thousand zloty would see the countess through her difficulties for the next few months. But life never went quite as planned, did it, because Henri, not nearly so cheerful as the first time they’d met, insisted, really did insist, that the arrangement continue.

And then, in August, instead of Henri, a tall Frenchman called Andre, quiet and reserved, and much less pleased with himself, and the work he did, than Henri. Wounded, Uhl guessed, in the Great War, he leaned on a fine ebony stick, with a silver wolf’s head for a grip.

At the Hotel Europejski, in the early evening of an autumn day, Herr Edvard Uhl finished with his bath and dressed, in order to undress, in what he hoped would be a little while. The room-service waiter had delivered a bottle of champagne in a silver bucket, one small lamp was lit, the drapes were drawn. Uhl moved one of them aside, enough to see out the window, down to the entry of the hotel, where taxis pulled up to the curb and the giant doorman swept the doors open with a genteel bow as the passengers emerged. Fine folks indeed, an army officer and his lavish girlfriend, a gentleman in top hat and tails, a merry fellow with a beard and a monocle. Uhl liked this life very well, this Warsaw life, his dream world away from the brown soot and lumpy potatoes of Breslau. He would pay for that with a meeting in the morning; then, home again.

Ah, here she was.

The Milanowek Tennis Club had been founded late one June night in 1937. Something of a lark, at that moment. “Let’s have a tennis club! Why not? The Milanowek Tennis Club-isn’t it fabulous?” The village of Milanowek was a garden in a pine forest, twenty miles from Warsaw, famous for its resin- scented air-“mahogany air,” the joke went, because it was expensive to live there and breathe it-famous for its glorious manor houses surrounded by English lawns, Greek statues, pools, and tennis courts. Famous as well for its residents, the so-called “heart of the Polish nation,” every sort of nobility in the Alamanach de Gotha, every sort of wealthy Jewish merchant. If one’s driver happened to be unavailable, a narrow- gauge railway ran out from the city, stopping first at the village of Podkowa. Podkowa was the Polish word for horseshoe, which led the unknowing to visions of a tiny ancient village, where a peasant blacksmith labored at his forge, but they would soon enough learn that Podkowa had been designed, at the turn of the century, by the English architect Arthur Howard, with houses situated in the pattern of a horseshoe and a common garden at the center.

The manor house-owned by Prince Kaz, formally Kazimierz, and Princess Toni, Antowina-had three tennis